


hymns for restless stars

by turnyourankle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Famous Harry, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Teacher Louis, mentions Jay's passing briefly, or formerly famous Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-02 12:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 37,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: Every Holiday season Louis has his pupils write down their Christmas wishes for class. He's read almost every wish under the sun, but one girl's wish takes him by surprise. It's for her uncle not to be alone anymore. It's not a wild wish by any means, but Louis had no idea that former teen idol Harry Styles was lonely in the first place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is a challenge I'm excited (and scared!!) to take on. I've always wanted to write an advent fic and I guess I finally figured out a plot that worked! Please beware of plenty of inaccuracies re: the British school system and how primary classes would work. I'm normally one for thorough research but it would've been prohibitive in this case, so hopefully it doesn't take you out of it too much. 
> 
> Just a note that I've made Mark the father of all of Louis' siblings in this fic, just to make things less complicated. 
> 
> Enjoy, and happy Louis'-birthday-month to you all.

“Just write down anything your heart desires,” Louis tells his class as he walks past their desks, handing each child a random stack of paper in various colours. Their eager fists catch on and clutch markers as he bites the inside of this lip, trying not to look too pleased with how excited they already are about the project. He’s still supposed to be the serious, and somewhat authoritative, after all. 

At the end of the row, Joel squirms in his seat and nearly jumbles his words as he speaks, “I want a pink paper!” Louis nods shuffles through his stack and hands him two pink sheets.

“Anyone else?” He asks, and three more hands with wriggly fingers shoot up and he drops off two sheets each, as he tells them to treat them well. 

They all nod solemnly as he explains what they’re doing one more time. He’s talked about it before; it’s his favourite part of being a teacher, after all. It’s a tradition he started his second year as a teacher, these Holiday wishes. Not letters to Santa, not Christmas cards. This way all the children could participate, no matter what they were taught, and there would be no arguments on how real Santa was from the kids with older siblings and the others who’d had their fun ruined already. 

No, this was all about reaching for the stars and wishing for anything and sharing it with the class, and learning about they could make their wishes come true. Sure, some kids put down video games and sneakers and doll collections. But even those wishes seemed to have a seed of something else in there. Someone who wanted to be a photographer or a veterinarian, someone who wanted to help others. Which meant Louis could teach them about charity and could start planting the seeds of community work and volunteering. He’d heard from a few parents that their child ended up wanting to adopt an older pet instead of going to a breeder like they planned, some who set up donations of their allowance to specific charities. That made it all beyond worth it, seeing the tangible changes that were triggered from his Holiday wishes.

And in practicality, it wasn’t just a fun time; it also fit into the writing, reading and vocabulary part of the curriculum, and without having to deal with bored kids acting out. They were always too focused on making their cards elaborate and spelling words out properly that they hardly make a ruckus. And Louis has thought ahead well enough supplies that no fights break out.

By the end of the day Louis has a box is piled high with cards from the kids; each carrying multiple wishes and covered in glitter, stamps, and gobs of glue. It takes a while to stack them so that none of them get stuck together, but he manages somehow, keeping the box against his hip as he goes to his car.

. 

Today is one of the days that Louis drives Doris and Ernest home since the schedule works out. He’s only just shoved his box in the boot when Doris bounds up, taking the front seat with a wave.

“Lottie wanted us to pick up coconut milk on the way home,” Ernest says, backpack slipping off his shoulders and into the backseat. 

Louis frowns at that. “Does Tesco have any?”

“They’ve got the cartons,” Doris says, pulling at the aux and plugging he phone to the soundsystem.

“That’s for drinking isn’t it?” Louis turns to Ernest, asks, “Can you ask which kind she wants?”

“It’s the canned, it’s for the curry I wanted to try.”

“Ah, so _you_ wanted coconut milk, not Lottie.” Ernest rolls his eyes but still shrugs. “Well, we’ve got to support your culinary adventures,” he adds, and drives them towards the biggest shop he knows. He’s no clue how Ernest ended up being the one of all the siblings that took after his mum when it came to cooking, but they’d all had to learn more just to keep up with helping him prepare meals. Whatever he wants to try will no doubt be splendid.

.

They barely make it into the shop before Doris and Ernest disappear and Louis is left to figure out the coconut milk situation on his own. He squints at the offerings when he finds the right aisle; they’re all practically indistinguishable. Eventually he hefts two cans of the organic brand. It certainly sounds like the kind that would be best for you. 

While they’re at the shop Louis figures he can stock up on some of his own groceries, grabbing himself two tubes of pringles and some orange juice before he ruins into the twins in the cereal aisle. 

“Are you doing your own shopping?” Ernest asks, poking at Louis’ basket. He nods approvingly when he spots the cans of coconut milk. 

“Might as well since I’m here.”

“We have breakfast food at home you know,” Doris says when Louis drops a box of Lucky Charms in his cart. 

“Yes, well, unfortunately your pantry is not a shop.”

“You could sleep over,” Doris suggests, her red curls bouncing as she adjusts her down over her ears.

“School night.”

“Yeah, so you can drive us in the morning,” Doris says.

He shakes his head, says, “Nice try. I’ve got work to finish.”  
Ernest doesn’t seem to bothered with the logistics of where Louis will spend the night, and instead he just asks, “Can we get chocolate? Since we’re here already, and all.”

“I want crisps,” Doris corrects and Louis shoos them both. “Alright, just get your snacks and hurry up. so they can go get what they want him to buy. 

. 

All seven of them are home for the night, only missing Mark because of of his tricky work schedule, which means there’s not a quiet place in the house. Not that Louis minds it; it’s nice to be reminded of the chaos once in a while. It feels homey and comfortable; it’s probably why he doesn’t have a problem teaching primary kids and enjoys their ruckus most of the time. 

He volunteers to take Barney out for a walk since they’re all occupied; Ernest tries to decipher and break down the curry recipe he wanted to try, delegating tasks to Lottie and Fizzy, and Phoebe and Daisy fight over what music to put on while Doris does homework in front of the telly. He can set the table when he gets back, but for now it’s probably safer for him and Barney to be out of the house, without any risk of knocking pans or pots over.

.

Louis returns to his flat with a full belly and dog hair covering his work pants. He grabs himself a Stella from the fridge so he can drink something cold as he goes through the cards, a little something to try and stay alert. He turns on the telly as well only to catch Gordon Ramsay pounding a fillet in his kitchen. It should be enough to keep him going for a couple more hours before sleep can’t be pushed back anymore. 

His box of cards in front of him, he takes care as he plucks each one out gently,and reads the blurbs. 

Louis can guess who wrote some of them, some because of the people mentioned in the cards, some because of the topic of the wish. The one Louis guesses is Joel’s mentions wanting all cats in the whole world to have food and be happy. He lets himself grin at that. There’s a _MEOW_ spelled out in the corner in red marker, contrasting with the pink paper. 

The next card is Al’s -- he recognizes her block writing immediately, and she was the only one who’d asked for a purple paper. The first wish spelled out on her card is, _I wish for Uncle Harry not to be alone_. 

That one makes him frown, and he doesn’t set it aside, determined to go through the rest of the remaining wishes. Every year there are unintentionally sad ones, so it’s not that he isn’t used to it, it’s just that Harry is someone he hasn’t thought of in years.

Not that he’s someone Louis actually knew, personally. Knew _of_ him, of course, how could he have missed the boy wonder two years his junior that had swept the nation off their feet and had the floor fall out from from under him not too long ago? And he’d known that Al’s mother, Gemma, was Harry’s sister. Not because of anything sinister, but Louis’d been in the same year as her and well-- it was hard to avoid the sibling that stayed in the town, a reminder of someone that made it out, made it big. 

But Harry Styles wasn’t in the spotlight anymore. Hadn’t been in quite some time, not even a blip on the radar, not even from the older twins who had followed his career since the start. Louis had just assumed that Harry had found something nice to occupy himself with; had stepped away as a choice, not wanting to attract more attention but happy to coast on what he already had, and perhaps settled down somewhere on some property he’d managed to accrue while famous.

But apparently he wasn’t coasting, not anymore, not if Al’s wish was to be believed.


	2. Chapter 2

Louis has mostly managed to push away any thought of Al’s wish by thinking about all the others, and alreading trying to think through how to help the kids work towards turning their wishes into goals that they can accomplish. 

But the pestering niggles come roaring back when Gemma drops Al off for class in the morning, the first arrivals, both bundled up against the harsh cold, matching poms on their hats.

As always Al is full of energy already, ready with a greeting, “Morning, Mr Louis.”

“Ms Alexandra, Ms Gemma,” Louis addresses each of them with faux formality. “Your cubby awaits,” he gestures for Al to go and drop off her outerwear as if directing her to a carriage. Gemma seems more subdued, “Careful, bug,” she says as she tries to help Al out of her jacket. 

“Mum, I’m _fine_ ,” Al says, drawing out the _fine_ into a whine. Gemma concedes and joins Louis at the front of the room where he’s stacking papers. 

“I heard wishes were yesterday?” Gemma asks, jutting her chin out expectantly.

Louis nods. “Beautiful card, Alexandra’s was,” he says. 

“No chance I get to sneak a peek at it?” 

He shakes his head. “Looking for Christmas gift clues?”

“She won’t say what she wants,” Gemma sighs, glancing towards Al, the sleeves of her jacket turned inside out as she tries to kick off her boots. “Don’t think she’d be happy to just get a replacement winter wardrobe because she’s torn this one up but that might have to do.”

Louis’ mouth twitches, and he bites the inside of his mouth. Perhaps he needs to pencil in a lesson in being careful with your belongings for the kids. 

“You sure I can’t take a quick peek? I won’t tell a soul,” she pleads again.

Louis mimes zipping his mouth as Al bounds up to them, squeezing around Gemma’s waist tightly and mumbling her goodbyes into her peacoat.

“See you tonight, bug,” Gemma says and smooths out Al’s fringe. From what he’s been able to tell since having Al in his class Gemma’s been raising Al on her own and doing a great job of it. Of course, there’s been the occasional sour mood and rare tantrums from Al, but even when Gemma’s patience is thin and the two of them are clashing he can tell there’s a current of adoration and respect there. He’s always thought of the two of them as a single unit, but Al’s wish complicates that thought. He can’t quite figure out where Harry fits into the equation, is the thing, and now he can’t stop thinking about it. He has to be a big part of their life for Al to be so bothered that she dedicated a wish for him. But how can there be an unhappy third to their content unit? What else has he missed? 

Then again, it’s really not his place to ponder. But it irks him to know he might’ve missed things, especially since he prides himself in his observational skills. 

The more pupils file into his classroom the less he has time to think about it, the needs of his kids too urgent. It’s one of those days he appreciates the distraction and the need to focus on the present; there’s not much room for thinking ahead when you’ve got to corral a room full of kids.

.

By the time Louis gets home he’s knackered, and his mind is ready to wander again. It would be pretty easy to look Harry up online. He might not have been making headlines in the past couple of years but surely if anything had happened there would be a trace of it online, wouldn’t there? 

He’s already on Instagram, scrolling through his feed, killing time waiting for his leftovers to heat up. Harry probably still has an official account on there. It might not be very revealing, but probably less creepy than looking up Gemma to see if he can pick up any clues as to what’s going on--

_No_ , that’s not a good idea. He picks at his lip, shaking his head as he pockets his phone. It buzzes as soon as he’s taken his plate out of the microwave, and when he has a chance to look at the screen his throat goes dry.

Nialler: _At th pub, famous bloke u fancied ten years ago is here_

He can’t be talking about Harry, can he? He’d never been a crush of Louis, and even if Niall knew that his sisters had liked him that didn’t mean Louis himself did. But the timing is too eerie, and Louis can’t even think about who Niall could be referring to,, and his mind is drawing a blank. 

He doesn’t bother texting back, swiping his way to a phone call instead. He doesn’t have the nerve to wait for indecipherable drunk texts from Niall.

“What are you talking about?” Louis asks as soon as Niall picks up. 

“That guy from that show,” Niall says, as if that’s any kind of explanation, his voice cutting in and out as he presumably turned away from the receiver to look at the bloke in question. But that vague description still gives Louis a hint of hope-- there’s no way Niall would refer to Harry as a bloke from a show instead of a teen pop star.

The pinch in Louis’ chest smoothes out as soon as Niall continues, “Misfits I think? That was a show right?”

He bites at the knuckle of his thumb, trying not to let his relieved laughter cut through the line. “That's you Niall. _You_ had a crush on that girl. I only watched that show with you, because of you.”

“Oh.” Niall goes silent, and there’s a shift conversation Louis can’t make out Then who m'I staring at?”

“Probably someone who thinks they’re getting a free drink tonight.”

Niall snorts and a contemplative hum comes through the receiver. “Well. You better come over here and make it happen.”

His nerves are still wound from the five seconds he felt cornered, so spending the rest of his night a home would surely not be fun. Especially not with nothing but a plate of half eaten haricot verts and dry chicken to keep him company. “Alright,” he concedes with a sigh. 

“Fucking ace,” Niall says before hanging up with enough enthusiasm that Louis is left wondering whether he planned this series of events after all.

Boxcar Social isn’t his and Niall’s regular hangout, a bit posher than what they normally go for, so Louis guesses he’s there with his work friends. He stabs the last piece of chicken with his fork, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth and keeps chewing as he ponders his wardrobe options. A black silk bomber over a v-neck should do, slim joggers thick enough to keep him warm for the walk over.

His hair can’t be fixed quickly so he pulls a beanie over it, and settles for checking that his fringe looks good in the reflection of shop windows on the walk over. There’s no snow on the ground yet, the flakes melting as they hit the ground, but his breath fogs the air in front of him like puffs of smoke.

As he suspected Niall, Laura and Connor are occupying a high table near the front of the bar, an empty pitcher and a few bottles littering surface. He didn’t even know they served pitchers at the place, everyone else in the bar holding glasses of wine and cocktails.

“Tommo!” Niall exclaims, pulling Louis into a hug and patting his back. “You’ve got some catching up to do,” he says as he pours the dregs of the beer into his own glass. “Get us another pitcher, will ya?” 

“Good or bad day at work?” Louis asks as Niall slips his arm around Louis’ shoulders, tugging him close. 

“Great day, great, great day. Even greater now that you’re here.”

“Cheers to that,” Connor says, and he, Laura and Niall all clink their glasses together. 

“Oh no, Louis-- Louis, you don’t have a drink.” Laura seems to realize, her eyes going wide at the realization that he’s been left out of the very toast celebrating him. “Do you want some of mine?” She offers and Louis shakes his head.

“S’alright, I’ll just go get another round.”

“Good lad, good lad.” Niall pats him on the back. 

Niall was right that he has some catching up to do to get on their wavelength. The bar is fairly sparsely populated, most people opting to stand at a table or sit at one of the booths. Still, he tries to decipher what people are drinking because he might need to polish off at least one drink on his own before going back to the table.

He watches as the bartender pours glasses of wine and loads them onto the servers’ trays, but he’s not quite in a wine mood tonight. Louis’ eye catches when he starts to make an electric blue cocktail, stirring it before propping a drink umbrella over the rim. It’s out of the norm for what he’s seen so far, and he’s curious to see where the single cocktail is going, tongue pressing against his teeth in curiosity. 

The finished cocktail doesn’t go on a tray though; it ends up on the bartop, not too far from where Louis is stood, and although the spot was empty a bloke steps up, long fingers cradling the glass. Louis’ gaze follows the movement of the bloke’s arm, up to his face as he takes a sip. It could be the lighting playing tricks on Louis, but he looks familiar, and Louis narrows his eyes as he tries to place the wide nose and furrowed brow. It’s only when the bloke pushes his hair back and the cut of his jawline is revealed that it hits Louis. It’s Harry Styles, stood just a couple of feet from him, drinking a bright blue cocktail with his coat still on and a frown on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

The pinch in Louis’ chest reappears, stronger than ever this time, and he nearly whips around to seek out Niall, trying to figure out if this was a setup after. If maybe Harry is the bloke Niall thought was from _Misfits_. If maybe Niall recognized Harry and just misplaced where he knew him from. 

But Harry’s still wearing his coat, a light dusting of snow melting on his sleeves. He can’t have been here longer than Louis. In fact, it didn’t even look like he ordered the cocktail; it was made and ready, waiting for him when came up to the bar. So it is just a strange, disconcerting coincidence that he’s at the same bar as Louis. This isn’t weird, not really, he tells himself. If Harry lives in town they easily might’ve orbited each other before. Louis just hasn’t noticed, because he had no reason to notice. Tonight is no different, and Louis should just acknowledge that this is happening and go back to Niall’s table and keep him company, just like had been requested of him.

Except-- except it might not mean anything, but if Harry is lonely, it wouldn’t do any harm for Louis to just be nice to him, would it? Exchange a few friendly words. As superficial as it might be, it might be welcome if Al is right about how he’s feeling. And he’s always been an advocate on taking action rather than the power of thought, and maybe this opportunity has presented itself just so he can _do_ something about it. 

His ricocheting thoughts are interrupted by the bartender trying to catch his attention with a nod and a quick greeting as he bends over to pick two bottles of cider from the fridge. “What’ll you have?”

“Um. Could I get another pitcher of the house lager for that lot,” he says, pointing his thumb at Niall’s table, “and I’ll have what he’s having.” He jerks his head towards Harry and the bartender nods his understanding. 

His words came out before Louis even realized he’d made the decision that he would stay at the bar a while longer and try to talk to Harry, and he’s now nervously tapping his card against the bartop, teeth worrying his lower lip. This could be a terrible, terrible idea. But impulse control wasn't ever one of his strong suites, and that holds true even now. 

There’s no time to change his mind anyway, as the bartender just nods, repeating, “A pitcher of beer and a Blue Hawaii coming right up.”

He stretches out his shoulders and twists his neck, getting a less than subtle glance in Harry’s direction. He’s got his coat off now, hung on a hook just under the bartop, and he unwinds the scarf around his neck. Since he’s not looking in Louis’ direction it’s hard for Louis to force himself to look away. His eyes lingering on Harry’s sinewy hands, up to the the flush of his cheeks and the pink of his lips. 

He looks older than what Louis remembers him looking like, which makes sense. But it’s not what strikes him the most, really. What surprises him is how much smaller Harry is than he’d expected. He’s not actually _small_ it’s just that thing where seeing someone on the telly and on magazine covers made them look larger than life. But Harry is just the size of a regular person. The only famous person he’s met before is Stephen Fry, and he was a genuine giant, so it’s not too strange that he’s caught off guard this time. The stringbean bartender towers over him, but Harry's shoulders look broader than his, and Louis is fairly certain Harry is taller than himself and Niall, too. 

The longer Louis looks at him the more real he becomes; there’s the slightest hint of smile lines on his face, a few strands of hair sticking out of the top of his head. He’s just a regular person, having a drink at the same bar he’s at. Which means it wouldn’t be too weird if Louis, another regular person, talked to him, right? 

He hands his card over when the bartender drops off his drink, and he sucks at his straw for a quick taste. He winces with shock at how sweet it is. He’s never had one of these drinks before, and whatever he expected this wasn’t it. 

Still, he licks at his lips and edges himself closer to Harry, pushing his drink along the bar top and asking, “So how does this rank as far as Blue Hawaii's go?” 

Harry observes him for a long few seconds, eyes sweeping his face, over to his drink and back to his face again. Louis’ cheeks going stiff with how he’s trying to keep his smile wide and friendly. He nervously adjusts his fringe, pulling at the edge of the beanie he’s wearing, wondering briefly what he must look like to Harry. Strange man just asking about his drink. Harry looks back at his own drink before his tongue dart out of his mouth. He plucks the umbrella off the rim and picks at it with his fingers, absentmindedly.

“Mine’s dandy.”

Louis nods to that, sucks at his straw again, this time ready for how sugary the drink is. “Always this sweet then?”

Harry looks past Louis, and if he wasn’t paying extremely close attention he probably would think he was trying to get out of the conversation, but it looks more like Harry’s doing a quick sweep of the room, and the people around them. He must not see anything strange because he gracefully moves to a closer stool. There’s only one stool between them now and they’re close enough that Louis can see the fine hair on his wrists and how chapped his lips are.

Harry’s voice is gravelly when he asks, “Do you want me to check yours?”

Louis shrugs and pushes his drink closer to Harry. Harry doesn’t hesitate to graze his fingers against Louis’ and it’s subtle-- incredibly subtle, but Louis’ doesn’t think he’s wrong in thinking that Harry is flirting with him.

If he was undecided the way that Harry sucks at his straw would clear things up, and Louis bites the inside of his cheek as he stares dumbly at him. Harry licks his lips as he pushes the drink back, and he doesn’t let go of the glass when Louis’ fingers wrap around it. One, two, three beats before he says, “Tastes great to me,” and pulls away.

It’s not Louis’ intention to flirt back, really, that wasn’t his intent in the first place when approaching Harry. But there’s a prickle on the back of his neck, and he can’t look away, can’t help himself from saying, “It’s my first time,” Louis’ mouth drops open and he’s quick to correct, “first time trying it, I mean.”

“I see.” Harry sucks at his own straw, unbothered by Louis’ stammering. Louis’ normally better than this, he is. But he’s normally not sat across from a man with an indecently neckline in the middle of winter, sucking at a straw as if it were something else entirely. 

Still. “You looked like you were enjoying yours, so I figured it had to be tried.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s a bit sweet for me,” Louis says, mouth and nose twitching. “But it was definitely worth a try.” His mouth pulls at one side, a crooked smile that reveals a bit of tongue and teeth. 

“I’m glad,” Harry says, his own smile slow and wide.

There's a slap against his shoulder and the sudden full on press of a body against his back. Niall, Niall making himself comfortable with his arms around Louis’ shoulders with ease. “Hiya,” he says, and with his chin practically hooked on Louis’ shoulder it sounds unreasonably loud, but he’s not talking to Louis. He’s staring right at Harry and Louis can tell from from Niall’s tone of voice that he’s got his goofy, too wide, drunken smile on. The one that’s charming if you know him, but apparently not very much so if you’re Harry.

His gaze cuts between Niall’s face and Louis’ and his jaw goes tight, lips pinched together. Louis’ gut goes cold, and he tries to shrug off Niall’s arm but he doesn’t seem to notice anything being off. 

“Thought we'd lost this one, nice to see he's being taken care of by someone who knows what he’s doing,” Niall says and while Louis can't see him he's fairly convinced Niall's winking. A heavy wink. A knowing wink. A terribly, horribly misleading wink. 

“Oi, barkeep!” the bartender turns and greets Niall with a smile and middle finger. Undeterred, Niall asks,” Another pitcher and another round for these two.” He gestures between Harry and Louis before pounding the bartop with the heel of his palm. 

“I’m good, thanks,” Harry says, chin tucked before he sweeps the rest of his drink. “I was leaving anyway.” He makes no effort to actually leave, straightening his back and turning away from them.

“Why don't you just take this, do whatever you want with it, and we can just forget this happened.” Somehow Harry found a pen, and he scribbles something on one of the napkins in front of him. He hands it over to Louis who takes it dumbly, and marvels at how pristine the tissue is. If he were going to write on a napkin it would’ve been torn to shreds. 

It’s only when Harry is slipping the pen back into his pocket that Louis realizes he’s just been handed Harry’s autograph. And the reason why he so easily maneuvered a pen out of his pocket -- probably the reason he carried a pen with him at all-- is because Harry is used to this. He’s used to people wanting something from him. He’s used to people striking up conversation only to have an ulterior motive.

A motive he now thinks Louis had. 

“Harry--” Louis starts, and from the slight pucker of Harry’s lips he knows it's the wrong thing to say, the wrong thing to do to confirm that he knows who Harry is. Because it just backs Harry’s assumption up further and digs the hole Louis is in deeper. 

Harry smiles at him, but it’s a waxy, static smile now. He lifts his glass to Louis and Niall, who seems so blissfully unaware of anything being wrong, cradling a fresh pitcher in his hands. 

“Have a nice night,” Harry says, and slips off the stool only to return to the spot he’d been stood at in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

To say that Louis is mortified is a massive understatement. He just wants to squeeze his eyes shut and open them up to an empty bar, or better yet, find himself back in his flat about an hour ago and convince himself not to come out at all.

But he can’t even blink twice before Niall pushes the now superfluous cocktails he paid for in Louis’ direction. He has to cradle the glasses in a precarious grip, following Niall back to their table. At least keeping the three glasses balanced is something to focus on that isn’t the look of disappointment and disdain Harry gave him. 

“What a weird ‘un, looks like you dodged a bullet, eh?” Niall laughs, refilling his glass, foam brimming over the rim. He bows down to skim some of the foam from the top. “What crawled up his arse, d’you think?”

“Niall,” Louis hisses, but Niall doesn’t seem to notice. The crumpled bar napkin sticks to his fingers and he pushes it into his pocket, not wanting to look at it, but not wanting to throw it away, either, just in case Harry’s watching. “He’s not weird. He’s famous.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Niall’s face shows clear offense. “I have too many real friends to pay attention to what famous people look like.”

Louis doesn’t point out that the only reason he’s even at the bar tonight is because Niall thought he saw someone famous. There’s no point in having the conversation since it’s not going to fix anything, and it’s not exactly something he can present Harry with Niall’s ignorance as an excuse. As if he hasn’t heard that one before, anyway. As if Louis didn’t put his foot in it as well. No, all he can do now is just move on.

“Wait, so there _is_ someone famous here?” Connor asks and Laura seems to perk up at the comment. She’s too drunk to be subtle as she looks around eagerly.

Apparently things could get worse. “Stop it,” he pleads with a whisper, hand covering his face. He wants to laugh at how badly things are getting messed up. 

“You’re probably never going to see him again anyway,” Niall tries to comfort him. He probably believes it, a one-shouldered shrug accompanying his words. “And even if you do I bet it happens all the time, he won’t remember you, specially.”

Laura nods along, says, “Yes, that’s true,” even though she’s clearly still trying to figure out who they were talking about, standing on the tips of her toes to get a better view of the place, lips pursed and her glasses pressed tight against her face. 

Normally it would be a comfort to hear that, a thin reassurance that Louis would try to absorb. Except that he can’t right now. Because there’s no guarantee of that, really. That they’ve already run into each other once should be proof of that, that they might be in the same circles after all. And if he’s as close to Gemma and Al as Louis thinks, he’ll probably attend the Christmas pageant. He really should’ve thought about that before he’d said anything at all. He lets out a measured exhale through gritted teeth.

“Right, well. I need a smoke.” He smiles tightly, and sweeps the leftovers of his drink with a grimace. The taste is overwhelming now, his tongue prickling with the amount of sugar he must’ve downed in just that one cocktail. It doesn’t matter, though, he’ll chase it away with the bitter taste of tobacco and the bite of wind.

Even as he lights up, even as he takes a drag of his fag he feels the embarrassment burning in his throat. He’s never tried to interfere with someone wish before, and if he’s perfectly honest, he can’t really convince himself that he approached Harry just for Al’s sake. 

Not that Louis had intended to flirt--not that he’d thought anything could happen. Despite the illusion that proximity gave him through knowing Harry’s niece and sister, that didn’t mean their worlds could or even should intersect in any meaningful way. And how self-absorbed and superficial was it to assume he could change anything in one night? 

“Christ,” he mutters to himself, scratching at his ear with his thumb. Sometimes you tried to help and you ended up making things worse, and there’s wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rush-posting this one before the office christmas party so profound apologies for any errors that may still be in here!! (lemme know so i can fix them.)

Instead of continuing to wallow, Louis finishes up the board that will be mounted in the classroom so the kids can pin their cards to it. Focusing on helping the kids figure out how to approach their wishes themselves is a good remedy to the irony that he inadvertently made himself an example of how sometimes you can try to help and it backfires. Not that he’s going to include himself in the discussion at all.

The kids seem excited by the board on the wall when they make it into the classroom, and Louis explains that they’re going to do a draw after lunch to determine the order in which the kids get to pick their card placement. As the month draws on they’ll fill in the blank spaces between cards, creating a mosaic that’s entirely unique to this class. He always takes a photo of all the kids in front of it when it’s done so they have something to remember their collaborative work with, the portraits lining the school corridor as well. 

The excitement is like a current running through the room, and there’s only a few complaints about the draw not being fair. Fairness not being about getting exactly what _you_ want is another lesson he’s working on passing on, some of the kids taking to it quicker than others.

“Now that we’ve got all your cards on the wall it’ll be easier for you all to remember what you want to accomplish,” he declares to the class once all the cards are up and they’re all back in their seats. 

A hand shoots up. “But wishes have to be granted by someone.”

“Like a genie!” someone in the back says, and the other kids start to _ooh_. “Or a fairy godmother!” Another voice pipes up, and a few of the kids chatter amongst themselves. He waits until the excitement dies down on its own before taking a seat on his desk, ready to deliver his lines.

“It’s true that a lot of people make wishes hoping that someone else will make their dreams come true. But you can actually accomplish a lot of your wishes on your own.”

Wide eyes stare back at him. He continues, “Putting it on cards and decorating them nicely is a good way to remind yourself of what it is you want, and get excited about it. And that’s what we’re doing today,” he finishes with a clap of his hands and clasps them in his lap.

No questions, no volunteers. A few heads turn towards the mounted board to their left. 

“Sooo,” Louis draws it out. “Who wants to talk about their wish?” Louis asks the class at large, and a handful of arms shoot up. Joel is one of the more eager kids, and Louis’ pretty happy about the options he found for him, so that’s who he gestures to go first. “Alright, Joel, go ahead.”

Joel practically bounces off his seat, “I love cats so I want all cats in the world to be healthy and happy.”

“Yes, that’s a very lovely wish,” Louis says as he leans back against his desk. “Does anyone have any suggestions as to how Joel can help cats?”

Ali raises his hand and Louis gestures for him to speak. “He could buy a cat and make that cat happy.”

“But what if you’re allergic?” Petra asks.

“Good points, both of you. But,” he smiles naturally this time, proud of himself for what he came up with as a solution for Joel’s wish, “there are things you can do to help cats without owning them, too.”

There are a lot of confused faces in the class, and Louis continues, “Obviously you can adopt a cat at a shelter, which gives that cat a better life and allows for a new one to take its spot. That’s really good. But even if you can’t own a cat because someone in your family is allergic or the building doesn’t allow it you can still help them.”

“But how?” Joel asks, face scrunched up in confusion. 

“Well, you can give shelters money so they can help the cats, you can sponsor a specific cat which means you get updates about how he or she is doing. And if you don’t have any money you can still help by making outdoor shelters for homeless with cardboard boxes and old blankets.”

The class has gone silent by now, and even Joel looks at him with wonder. “Can we make some during crafts?” He asks, and Louis grins happily.

“Well, I was thinking about us doing that as part of our winter program. If you’re interested in making cat shelters you’ll just have to bring one of these notes home and get them signed by your parents.” Wide eyes and grins come from all the corners. 

“So, who’s next?” He asks, clapping his hands together. 

.

At the end of the day he’s covered a good third of his class’ wishes and all the kids grabbed a permission slip to build feral cat shelters. A few of the kids will still have to be convinced that they can take things into their own hands. Hopefully their parents can step in and support that idea when needed.

He’s taking his time wiping the whiteboard clean at the end of the day when Al interrupts him,  
“Mr Louis,” she says with her dimples popping. 

“Ms Alexandra,” he says, and her face scrunches up, as always amused by her full name being used. “What’s up, Al? Is your mum late?” He asks a bit more casually and she shakes her head.

“No, she’s talking to the other mums about grown up stuff.”

His mouth turns down in understanding, he scrunches his nose. “Boring, isn’t it?”

She frowns and tries to whisper, although it comes out louder than she’s been speaking so far. “I have a question about our wishes.”

“Alright,” he says, trying not to visibly tense up. There have been a few years when a kid has wished for a sibling, which is quite the landmine to tread on. There were no such wishes this year, but Al’s request feels just as delicate, no less in part due to his own role in making the situation worse. 

He takes a second to straighten his back, and his calves twitch as he remains crouching, lips rolling into his mouth. “Go ahead.”

“I thought that if you really really really want something if you wish hard enough for it, it would come true.”

“Well, I think wanting things a lot usually means you end up trying harder.”

“I don’t know how to try,” she frowns and Louis takes a quick, deep inhale. Okay, so he’d have to deal with this, now, apparently.

“Is this-- is this about your uncle?” He asks, hesitantly, stomach tight that he’s even broaching the subject at this time. She nods quickly.

“I don’t want him to be lonely.”

“Well, being alone isn’t always so bad.”

She seems to consider this. “Mum likes being alone.”

“There you go,” Louis says with, knot easing up in his chest. 

“But she does things that make her happy.”

“Well, what makes H-- your uncle happy?”

“He loves spending time with me,” she beams, “and cooking! He always smiles really big when he he’s cooking. Sometimes he sings for us.” Her frown is ever present, but it’s less upset and more contemplative, now.

“There you go. The solution was there all along, Al. He just needs to do more of those things.” He smiles tightly, and gets up, a touch of an ache in his back making itself known as he rubs his lower back. “D’you want to go find your mum? I bet she’s wondering where you are.”

Al seems serious, still, lower lip jutting out, but still she nods, and heads towards the door, leaving Louis to trail along behind her on the search for Gemma.


	6. Harry

“Harry! Wake up, Harry!”

The mattress shakes Harry awake, the sensation of being jerked awake followed by his duvet being pulled away from him. Harry has to grip the edge firmly to pull it over his eyes, still screwed shut. Someone turned the light on in his room, probably the Alexandra shaped monster that’s trying to take his sheets away from him.

“I want pancakes for breakfast!” 

He should say something, probably, but his eyes are still screwed shut, a monotone whine the only sound he seems capable of making.

There’s a stomping coming nearer, and in no time he can hear Gemma joining them. “Alexandra. You know this is Harry’s meditation time, she says, as she scoops Alex against her chest. “And we don’t go into people’s rooms without knocking.”

“But mum, he wasn’t opening! You can open the door in an emergency you said, this was an emergency.” 

“We don’t have time for pancakes, bug,” Gemma whispers as she leads Al out of Harry’s room. He can’t hear the rest of what she has to say, doesn’t really care with how bone tired he still is. He rolls back onto his stomach and pulls his pillow against his chest. 

He snuffles against the sheet, cotton getting stuck in his mouth. Since they’re both up it can’t be as early as it feels. He groans into his sheets, flipping over onto his back. His duvet is making him too hot, and it feels like falling back asleep will be impossible, no matter how high he turns up his white noise machine.

“Ugh,” he groans before rolling himself out of bed. He hasn’t had breakfast with the girls during the week in ages, so he might as well join in. He slips on a pair of sleep pants before stumbling his way out of the room and making his way down the kitchen.

Al is on a stool, kicking her legs against the kitchen island as she eats her marmite toast. He goes up behind her and scrubs his hand through her hair, messing it up.

“Harry!” 

“Good morning. I don’t think we’ve said that today yet.” He can practically hear Al’s eyeroll at that. He loads up the espresso maker with the grounds Gemma left behind, and steadies his cup waiting for it to fill up as the machine whirrs sluggishly. 

He squints at Al’s toast. “Don’t we have frozen pancakes?”

Al shrugs, picking at the corner of her toast and munching on it. “S’not the same, wanted to make it now.”

Gemma passes by and makes eye contact with Harry, he tries to convey his confusion over Al’s pancake insistence but all Gemma does is shrug, with the sides of her mouth on a downward tug.

“Since we can’t make pancakes can we make something tonight? Biscuits?”

“You’ve got swimming lessons tonight, Al,” Gema pipes in, clearly still within hearing range.

“What about after that?” Al insists, her cheeks puffing out with the last of her toast. 

“Oh no, after that we’re getting ready for bed,” Gemma pipes in and Al huffs loudly. “I heard that!” Gemma says, voice echoing from the hallway. 

“M’sure we can convince her to let us have ice cream,” Harry whispers conspiratorially, shielding one side of his mouth with his hand. 

“It’s not the same.”

Gemma emerges with Al’s swim bag, pulling a pair of goggles onto her face. Al seems less than amused, pulled the goggles off, and keeps pushing, “What about tomorrow? We can make biscuits tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow we’ve got dinner at Nan’s,” Gemma says. “We haven’t got all morning.” She starts pulling on her clothes where she’s stood, urging Al to do the same. 

Harry crouches next to Al and takes the goggles from her grip, handing them back to Gemma who puts them back in the swim bag. He tells her, “I’m sure Nan wouldn’t mind you helping out. Maybe you can get her to reveal her secret ingredients.”

Al’s face goes tight, a line forming between her eyebrows as they pull close together. She erupts in a frustrated sigh, clearly dissatisfied with this alternative. Harry looks at Gemma curiously, trying to figure out if she knows what’s going on, but she just shrugs with a shake of her head. “Don’t look at me,” she mimes, just as confused. 

“What about this weekend?” Al insists, even as Gemma tries to wrangle her into her jacket and boots. She’s not even complaining about doing it herself, which is unusual. 

“This weekend Harry is going out with his friends,” Gemma says, much to Harry’s surprise. With a crooked grin and twitch of her nose she continues, “He needs a lot of time to make himself presentable, you know. Whole day will be gone.”

“Very funny.” He doesn’t even try to hide that he’s not on board with what she’s saying, eyes intentionally wide and brows drawn. Gemma doesn’t bend though, straightening her lapels and pulling on her gloves. 

An impatient stomp pulls their attention towards her, revealing that she looks just as unhappy. “Well figure out a time to bake, Al, don’t worry,” Harry reassures her. “We can make hot chocolate before bed, okay?”

Al doesn’t get much choice but to agree, getting ushered back outside by Gemma while Harry just starts to sip on his coffee. It’s exactly the way he likes it; thick with caramel undertones. His schedules has been thrown for a loop, and he’s not got about two extra hours to his day that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He finish his cup and quickly sets to make an other one, deciding that this espresso will become a latte. He has the time to heat and foam his milk, after all, and he’ll need something to drink before reconfiguring his schedule.

He sets it all up methodically, filling a tall glass with hot water to keep it warm while he prepares the coffee and makes a fluffy milk foam to pour it over. He hasn’t mastered the latte art just yet. Maybe there’s a class for that, though? Maybe that’s what he should do with his extra time; look for a latte art class. 

He laughs at himself before going over his schedules. Thursday. He’s got a lot to do today. The cleaner is coming to the house, which means he has some tidying to do before she gets there. He could probably do a load of washing, too. He’s got himself two shifts at the SPCA, they probably wouldn’t mind if he lingered a bit longer. Perhaps he could ask them for something extra to do on Saturday, so he can have an actual excuse to present Gemma with when she reminds him about his Friendsmas supper invitation. If he’s managed to avoid it for the past five years, he’ll figure it out again this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~am i spoiling the fun if i say they reunite tomorrow?~~


	7. Chapter 7

Gemma practically collapses against the refrigerator, waiting for Harry to hand her a mug of hot chocolate. Round two for the adults, with a generous splash of amaretto added into it. She pushes at the box on the counter that she hadn’t noticed earlier, laser focused on getting a quick snack and getting Al to bathe and polish off her homework. Harry should've put it away before she returned from her shower.

“Well, as it says on the box, it’s a set of butter warmers.” He tries to inject some levity in his response, snatching the box away from her before taking the hot chocolate off the stove and filling their mugs. “Might be useful.”

Despite Gemma having a peel off face mask on Harry can still tell that she’s sucking in her cheeks, incredulity evident in her eyes. 

He chooses to ignore it, heading towards the living room with his mug in his hands, and takes a seat on the sofa, keeping himself very still. “Is Al entering another phase, you think?” He asks, and Gemma snorts at him as she takes a seat opposite him. 

“You’re not changing the subject. We’re talking about you.” 

“Pardon?” His eyebrows must shoot up too high, or his voice is too squeaky, whatever it is, Gemma’s not buying it.

“ Al isn’t filling her room with single use kitchen appliances yet, so she can wait. But you. You’re going to your friendsmas, Christmas reunion, thing this weekend.” 

Harry cringes. “Gem. It’s been forever.”

“Well, that’s why it’s a reunion. Isn’t it. It’d do you good, you know.”

“You know I have the means to make supper for myself.”

“So invite them over when you see them. Host them for a New Year’s thing. Host it next year. I don’t care. You’re going.”

He tries to plead with her wordlessly, drawn brows and his cheeks feeling tight with how he’s tensing.

“That doesn’t work on me, whatever that is,” she says, gesturing at him, fingers waving at his face. “I told them you’re going. Just make that my Christmas gift.”

“I already got you a gift,” he counters and she rolls her eyes.

“Save that for my birthday, then. Or return it. This is what I want, okay. Just go see your friends. They missed you,” she insists.”

.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t believe that his friends want to see him; they wouldn’t keep inviting him, year after year, if they didn’t. It’s that he knows that he can’t give them what they want. He doesn’t have anything to contribute anymore. He’s not a classmate they can rib teachers with, he’s not a popstar with stories of extravagance or with leftover swag bags to pass on or any VIP tickets to concerts or shows or premieres to generously share.

Still. He can try, this once, just for Gemma. He feels a bit like he’s putting on a costume, making himself _presentable_ for his night out. If he’s going to do it he needs to commit, after all, go all out so that Gemma can’t complain. He goes for an all black ensemble, a button up silk shirt with some metallic threads throughout. Subtle enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s making a spectacle, but still acceptable for Harry Styles to wear. He can’t do anything about the frown on his face, the deep set line between his eyebrows, but he’s been told it suits him so he doesn’t even bother trying to relax.

The last time he’d made it to one of the Friendsmas dinners they were still sending invites on Facebook, and they’d been at the pub down the road from his mum’s house. Tonight they’d signed up for a special set festive menu at the Holborn Dining Room. No plates of chips or watered down Heinekens to be found. This time it’s a shared feast, with cheese for dessert instead of sweets. 

Harry plans to arrive last, and he succeeds, being lead to a secluded table with one seat open. There’s already wine at the table, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone with a special request, especially not when the bill will be split between all of them, so he just smiles as the server fills up his glass. 

Johnny stands up as soon as Harry’s glass has been filled, radiating a joy that Harry wishes he shared. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Gentlemen and gentlemen. It seems Mr Styles has returned to us. That calls for a toast.” 

He raises his glass and winks at Harry as the others follow suit, calling, “Here, here!” and “Cheers!” 

Harry’s smile is tight before he gulps down a third of his glass. He hasn’t had wine in ages, the weight of it on his tongue unfamiliar. The more he drinks the less he has to speak though, and it’s easy to just nod along as his table mates ask him questions. None of them really require any answers.

“Harry, remember that time we snuck into the college at night and silly stringed the teacher’s lounge?” and, “What about when you played the O2 and the birds at the front thought we could get them backstage?” and, “Thought you’d invite us to your movie premieres but you were too fancy for us, weren’t ya, you bugger?” and, “Don’t have a ball and chain and sprockets, must be nice, innit? Just all the time and money to yourself.”

Nothing that requires more than Harry nodding with a tight smile as he gulps down more of his ever replenishing wine, and stuffs his face with more pudding and prawns and tarts as the shared plates are passed around the table. 

It’s not so bad, he thinks, as he polishes off his glass and his stomach feels full and heavy. He can just agree with everything, let his eyes droop. He feels more relaxed, probably because of the wine, without even having said a word. Gemma was right, this was a good idea. He’s doing great.

.

When the supper is over and they’d all dropped the cards for the servers to split the bill equally, Harry is the only one who seems keen to leave. Still, he promised to make a night out of it, and as much as he wants to crawl into his bed and make himself comfortable, he can tolerate an hour or two more. 

“Have you guys been back to the Mason’s Arms since last time?” Ennis asks, and Harry shakes his head for the first time all night. No one is paying much attention to him anymore though, he’s a good addition, a good hanger on to have, but he’s not steering the night.

“Not since last-- heard they got new pool tables,” Johnny adds. He looks at the others, and Harry’s pretty sure a decision is made along the way that he’s not involved in, and before he knows it he’s shuffled into an unmarked car with three of his mates and he lets himself be pulled along as they step out. He might’ve fallen asleep, he’s not sure, he recognizes the exterior of the pub they’re walking into--or that he’s being shouldered into-- as one they’d had previous Christmas suppers at.

He doesn’t pay much attention, beyond sliding into the booth that they commandeer, easily. They order a round of pints, and when Johnny asks if Harry minds watching the booth he salutes them, leaning so he has his back against the wall, and his legs spread along the bench. He can probably stay for one more round, though the wine has made him groggy enough that he just wants to close his eyes for one second while he waits for the drinks and the lads play a round of pool. He can slip out after one round, a French exit should work with his image, should work with the whole night really. 

He doesn’t even think about resting his eyes, just closes them, his chin dropping as his slips into unconsciousness.

.

Harry’s leg is being shaken. His leg. Still in tight trousers, boots still on; body upright and not in bed. He presses his chin towards his throat before daring to open his eyes, a bit concerned as to the situation he might’ve got himself in. At least he’s fully clothed and upright. Can’t be too bad. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello,” Harry answers, voice gruff with sleep. He clears his throat. He recognizes the bloke at the one from the other night. The one he’d flirted with before realizing he just wanted a bloody autograph. His heartrate accelerates and he pulls his legs closer to himself, knees folding against his chest.

“‘M sorry, I didn’t mean to-- disturb you or anything,” he starts. He really doesn’t look like he wanted to bother Harry. And that’s when Harry notices he’s wearing an apron, along with the same polo the rest of the staff has on. 

“You work here?” He asks, which-- possibly is a bit rude but. He’s still a bit out of it. And it’s been a while since he’s been followed but-- what other explanation is there? 

“Kind of,” the bloke answers, jerking Harry out of his panicked spiral. He tucks his hair behind his ear, and scrunches his nose. “I honestly didn’t mean to interrupt your uh, nap, or night or whatever. Just thought if I was sleeping in a pub on my own I might not want to be. I can leave you to it, though. If that’s what you prefer.”

He glances at the table, littered with empty glasses and freshly filled ones. The pile of coats that had been piled on the bench opposite him has diminished significantly, though not entirely. He scrubs his face with his hand, trying to figure out how long he was out. 

“Right,” Harry adds, glancing at the beers again. “I don’t s’pose you know where my mates went?” he asks.

“A few of them closed out their tabs. I think the rest of this is on-- well, the rest of this is on one tab,” he answers, which is a polite way of saying they’ve left Harry to foot the bill. Of course.

“I can bring you a coffee if you like? On the house,” the bloke says, mouth twitching to the side. Harry nods again, silently, and it’s the only thing he’s agreed to all night that actually sounds like something he wants.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry moves out of the corner of the booth so he can watch the bloke get his coffee. Not that he thinks he’s going to do anything to it, but it’s just a bit of a weird coincidence. And while he hasn’t had to be actively suspicious of people’s intentions for some time, apparently it’s a habit he has no issue falling back into, on high alert now that the same bloke has approached him, twice, in less than a week. 

He doesn’t look like someone Harry would be suspicious of. Probably around his own age, and even while still slightly bleary-eyed Harry has to admit he’s as wickedly attractive as he remembers. He’s leaned over the bar waiting for the coffee, and from what Harry can tell he certainly fills out his jeans quite nicely.

Harry quickly jerks back when the bloke turns, and he scrubs his hands through his hair, trying to make himself feel, and look, more alert. The coffee gets placed in front of him and rather than start cleaning up the table, or giving Harry the bill, the bloke’s just stood at the end of the booth, fidgeting with the belt of his apron.

“I uh-- I don’t know if you remember me,” he starts his mouth thin and pulling down as he raises his eyebrows before clearing his throat. “Might happen to you a lot, I guess. People coming up to you so I don’t know--maybe you don’t--”

“I remember,” Harry says, just wanting to put the guy out of his misery. He cradles his coffee cup and watches as the bloke tries to collect himself.

“Right, well. I just wanted to apologize for what--” he scratches at his jaw with his thumb, face scrunching up. "I guess for what it seemed like? I don’t. I wasn’t looking for an autograph. Or like, a selfie or whatever.”

Harry sips at his coffee, trying to straighten his back. The sentiment seems sincere, but he doesn’t trust the appearance of sincerity anymore. “Right.”

The bloke bites his lip and gestures to the opposite side of the booth, “Do you mind if I?”

Harry nods and the bloke just perches at the edge of the bench, as if he doesn’t intend to stay long. He makes eye contact briefly, blue eyes shining in the dark, before he looks down at the table and pushes the empty glasses towards the middle. For a moment Harry wonders if he’s going to say anything at all.

He seems to consider something, knuckles dragging against the tabletop. “The thing is-- Your niece, Alexandra, she’s in my class. She's my pupil I mean, I’m her teacher.” His lips thin into a tight smile. “She really cares about you, so. That’s why when I saw you I just-- It was stupid. Anyway I just wanted to explain. Don’t like leaving a bad impression on people. Especially not people who’re important to my students.”

“So you’re…?” Harry starts but trails off so the bloke can fill in his name. He may not be in the public eye much anymore, but it’s not like his family history is a secret and it wouldn’t be too difficult for a local to find out what Gemma named her child. He wants to believe the bloke, of course, but he knows better than doing so blindly.

“Louis. Tomlinson.” His hand flattens out on the table, and he flicks a finger against a glass before fisting his hands in front of him. Harry’s pretty sure Al and Gemma have talked about a _Louis_ before but-- well. He’s not entirely on board just yet.

He purses his lips, biting at the insides of his cheeks. “Alex gives you the run around then?” 

Louis narrows his eyes at him. “Does she go by Alex at home? She told me she hates the _ks_ sound and won’t respond to it.”

Harry can’t help the twitch of his lips as he nods. “No, that’s right. Since she was a baby, her face got all scrunched up when she hears it.”

Louis nods along, there’s something that passes in his eyes. Probably the realization that he was being tested, and he ducks his head before getting back up. “Right, well. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Still, Harry has to ask, “So you don’t work here? Or is the teacher pay that bad that you’ve got yourself a side gig?” His question trails off and Louis barks out a laugh.

“Or did I pretend to work here so I could have an excuse to talk to you?” He adds, but it’s without bite. “I’m just lending a hand. I know the owner and they were short-staffed today so I just jumped on. I guess there’re a lot of people coming here for their after supper plans, where the pints are a bit cheaper than at the posh restaurants." 

“I guess that’s us,” Harry says, mouth pulling to the side. 

“Well, I don’t know about you. You’ve just been sat here all night. I don’t know if it’s good business though, having patrons napping at the table.”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “Wasn’t on purpose. It was just a bad combination of a bottle of wine and being too used to sleeping in strange locations.” He quirks his lips. “Used to be useful. I guess it’s a negative now.”

Louis shrugs. “Nah, I think your lads got played at pool by some of our regulars, so your nap might’ve saved you some embarrassment. I’d have a word with them though, leaving you alone like that.” 

“They’re not all bad. They didn't draw a willy on my face, did they?” He freezes as soon as he said it. It’s not like he’s actually seen his reflection yet, his fingers prodding at one of his cheeks. “Did they?” He whispers conspiratorially, and Louis shakes his head, trying to hold back a wide smile from overtaking his face. 

“You look normal. Except for that drawn on mustache, a bit sparse, not a good job,” he adds, waving his hand in Harry’s direction. 

Harry’s fingers go to his top lip immediately, but he can tell from Louis’ face that he’s messing with him. “Ha, ha.” 

“Don’t worry about the bill, by the way. The bartender recognized one of the blokes in your group. He comes in here quite often apparently, so it’ll just be added to his tab.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, and instinctively he protests, “It’s fine. I can cover it. It’s not quite fair to make him pay for all this.”

“Wasn’t quite fair to just ditch you, was it?” Louis’ tone is light and teasing, but there’s an underlying current there of disappointment. Like he’s angry on Harry’s behalf that he would’ve been left behind. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but it’s weird, having someone care about how he feels that he doesn’t even know, that he wasn’t exactly the kindest to not a few days ago, and that he only just essentially quizzed because he doubted the veracity of his claims. 

He gives a shrug. “Let me at least pay for the coffee, then,” Harry offers and Louis sighs dramatically. 

“Fine, fine.” He raps his knuckles against the side of the booth before turning around. “A cheque for one drip coffee, coming right up,” he says with a wink, walking away.


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as Harry gets home from the pub he makes a beeline for the refrigerator. It’s where Gemma has pinned all of Al’s school papers; permission slips, class lists, swimming schedules, curriculums. He flips through the papers that detail after school programs that Al isn’t in, and even some old papers that aren't relevant anymore. But on every current paper _Louis Tomlinson_ is printed in the top right corner, identifying him as Al’s teacher. 

Harry’s chest puffs out with the deep inhale he takes as he clutches the papers. So Louis from the pub really is Louis, Al’s teacher. That he knew that Alexandra went by Al alone was an unlikely tidbit for an impostor to learn, but still. Harry’d learned the hard way not to trust easy. 

He pulls the contact sheet out from the others, thumbing at the spot where Louis’ information sits. Now he’s left with another question of what Louis’ intentions actually were that first night they met. It had seemed like he was flirting, Harry only reconsidered that interpretation when his friend had come up to them. But tonight Louis hadn’t made much of an effort to stick around after Harry paid for his coffee, so maybe Harry’s earlier brush off made him gunshy. Or perhaps he’d realized Harry wasn’t quite worth the effort. 

Harry’s pulled out of his thought spiral when Gemma pops into the kitchen, water bottle in hand. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, and she goes straight for the tap to refill her bottle.

“Oh, you’re back,” she says absentmindedly yawning, giving him a chance to stack the contact sheet back with the other papers and pushing them aside, out of her line of sight. He feels a bit like he’s been caught red-handed, even though there’s nothing untoward with him just looking at Al’s school papers. Gemma asks, “Have a good time?”

“Uh huh,” he hums, fingers pushing at the hair gathered at the nape of his neck. If she looked at him she’d probably be able to tell that he’d slept since she last saw him, his eyes still a bit droopy from fatigue and his hair an absolute mess from. He tries to breathe normally, smiling big enough to pass any scrutiny she sends his way, but nothing comes. 

“See, I told you you’d have fun,” she gloats instead, never one to resist a good told-you-so moment. She tips her bottle towards him before taking a swig and leaving him, still stood in his outerwear in the middle of the house. 

His evening might have had an unexpected pleasant twist, but it’s definitely not one Gemma could ever predict.

.

Despite it being Sunday Harry’s not awakened by Al demanding breakfast, even though he’d certainly have time to make them today if she wanted. No, he can tell from the music through the corridor that she's in the living room busy watching her weekend YouTube playlist.. The closer he gets the more familiar the tune is, likely the same Johnny Orlando video she's been playing all week.

“Hi, Harry!”

“Morning bug,” he calls out to her, waving as he heads towards the kitchen and his espresso machine. It’s still quite loud the wine hangover he has, and he squints all the way to the kitchen. He’d certainly hoped that since he’d already had a nap mid-evening he’d avoid the hangover, but that seemed to have been a pipe dream.

He’s finishing topping up his glass with a second shot when Al storms into the kitchen and greets him excitedly. “We have to bake today.”

“We have to?”

“Yes, we have a bake sale tomorrow.”

He tries to filter through what he knows, a bit sluggish in his thought process. He doesn’t remember being asked to help with that. “I don't think Gemma told me about this.”

“She must've forgot,” Al's answer comes easy and quick. 

Harry sucks in his cheeks. “Really?” It doesn’t quite sound like her, forgetting. And he did go through all of Al’s school papers yesterday, and he doesn’t remember seeing anything about a bake sale. 

“Well,” she draws it out, seemingly trying to fill in the silence.

He frowns at that. “Are you sure you didn't forget to tell us?”

Her eyes widen and she agrees eagerly. “I forgot to give her the papers. But since we're going shopping today we can pick up ingredients for baking.”

“Hmm,” Harry ponders. But she has a point. And with Gemma away for book club it’ll give Harry an easy way to structure their afternoon. And that feels like exactly what he needs after being surprised last night. 

. 

They make it to the shop just after breakfast. They’ve got a long list for the week, but for the sake of her bake sale Harry allows Al to pull anything she wants from the shelves in the baking aisle. 

He already decided they’d make jaffa cakes, so he swipes some orange jelly and baking chocolate on his own, while Al drops a packet of figs and one of almonds into the cart. He can use those for something else, maybe give himself a challenge to use her choice of ingredients. 

Al normally does quite enjoy going shopping with Harry, especially at the grocers, but her energy today seems a bit through the roof. And not just because his mood is a bit subdued. She hasn’t given him much information other than they needed “a lot” of treats to sell. 

If Gemma doesn’t know about this, he can’t very well ask her for details. But he could… he could ask Louis directly. His name is right on the contact sheet at home, and he stated he was available for questions from any of his pupils’ caretakers, and Harry certainly fit in that category today.

He’s still waffling a bit while they walk back home, but when Al starts lining up ingredients on the counter for them to work with he decides he has to ask Louis. If nothing else then to know whether there’s any restrictions on what the kids can bring.

He tries not to overthink it, thumbing Louis’ number into his phone. He decides to shoot him a text instead of calling, that way Louis can answer at his convenience. It doesn’t have to be complicated so he settles for a quick introduction and saying he has a question about Al’s schedule this week. 

He doesn’t have time to put his phone next to him before it rings. The phone nearly slips out of his hands when he notices it's Louis calling. 

“Hello,” Harry says, but he hears only air on the other end. “Louis?” Did he accidentally butt dial Harry after seeing his text? 

At last Louis speaks, “Hey, sorry, you're on speaker. I was just doing a turn, sorry about that. My sister dialled you back before I was done taking a turn.”

“Oh, okay.” Harry feels a bit guilty interrupting Louis’ time with his family, but it’s not like he himself called. Although since Louis had never heard from Harry before maybe he thought it was a serious issue? He hurries to say, “It’s not urgent, if you're busy, I can wait.”

“Nah, no worries, I like to be on top of any class issues. What were you wondering?” 

“I just have a question about the bake sale,” he asks, slightly of kilter.

When Louis goes silent he expects him to respond in confusion as to why Gemma isn’t the one calling him, but instead what he gets is a thoughtful and quite soft, “No…” he draws out the vowels, hms at the end of it. When he speaks again he sounds more certain. “We don’t have a bake sale this week.”

“What?”

“Yeah, we only have them in the spring term, when we can set up outdoors.”

“Huh” Harry hums. He’s not quite sure what to say. He definitely didn’t mishear or misunderstand Al, and she has already set the kitchen up for their big project. Which means she made it up. That’s a curious, curious lie. 

Louis’ voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “Anything else?” 

“No that's all, must’ve misread something,” he adds as a quick excuse.

“Great, have a good night,” Louis says kindly before dropping the call. 

So he could confront Al and see what she had to say for herself. Or he could go along with it and bake 32 jaffa cakes with her, and then see what they were for. 

When she comes to find him pushing his apron in his arms and already wearing hers, he decides to go along with it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today was A Day. and so i'm delivering the Fluff to make up for it. also just a note that i'm so incredibly grateful for anyone that's left a comment-- i'm not able to respond to everyone but i truly appreciate it.

They end up with way more than 32 biscuits. Probably because Al decided they needed to use up the whole jar of orange jelly, because apparently jaffa cakes are the only thing orange jelly is good for, so why wait to make more when you could use it all up at once?

And Al enjoyed it, loved watching the biscuits rise in the oven and playing assistant, smearing the jelly mixture on the biscuits, trying to put as big of a glob as possible on there before covering each biscuit with chocolate. They’re still only halfway done when Gemma returns from book club with ruddy cheeks from more than just the cold. She blinks at the commotion in the kitchen, says, “It’s like Santa’s workshop in here.”

“Why don’t you put on some music?” Harry tells her, bribing her with one of the cakes from the cooling rack. “You can help us make them festive.”

“Big responsibility!” Gemma shouts, just before Barry White’s baritone fills the air.

“So what’s the bake sale raising funds for?” Gemma asks, leaving Harry to pinch his lips as he drapes another cookie with chocolate, handing it over to Al. 

He glances at her, not so subtly, as he waits for her to answer Gemma’s question. “It’s for the cat shelters. We need to buy supplies to make them.”

“That’s nice,” Gemma says, none the wiser. God, if they’re already not able to tell when Al’s lying she’s going to be a right terror when she’s a teenager. 

With the last of the biscuits out of the oven and no more appliances being needed, it’s the perfect time to take Gemma aside and explain the situation to her. “Al, why don’t you keep decorating the cakes and we’ll go get the Christmas decorations.”

“‘Kay,” Al responds as Harry hurries Gemma along towards the attic. It’s not really a two-man job, but it’s the fastest way he can think of to inform her about Al’s digression.

“She’s lying,” Harry practically hisses. As soon as the words are out Harry feels a bit mean for saying it in the first place, so he adds, “I mean. I think she’s lying. About the bake sale.”

Gemma’s frown is deep and she leans over the decoration boxes, mouth twitching to one side. “I normally check her knapsack for any notes that she might’ve forgotten--or not _want_ to give to me. But I didn’t see this.”

She drums her fingers across the box of garlands. “I guess she could’ve forgotten it in class, but Louis’ pretty on top of things.”

“Yeah,” he adds, trying not to sound too choked. He’s not told her that he called Louis to check if there was a bake sale. He doesn’t really want to tell her now. “So she’s lying.”

Gemma blows out a breath, dramatically. “Well she is a Styles after all, I guess the mischief was going to start sometime. Good catch, though.”

She’s surprisingly calm, all he while he’s still whispering, “So what'll she do with the cakes you think?”

“Maybe she really is going to sell them.” She hauls two of the boxes off their pile, hauling them down the stairs carelessly. They’re going to have to replace the boxes if she keeps this up. 

“No. Come on. She's not a biscuit dealer.” At least Harry hopes she isn’t.

“What a strange thing to lie about,” Gemma says with a hum.

And so Al ends up with both Harry and Gemma observing her closely, waiting for her to crack and admit that there’s no bake sale. Harry thought she’d cotton on to them, but Gemma insisted that she’d never guess they figured her out. “Kids always think grown ups are stupid,” she said, and from the way Al doesn’t seem to have a care in the world he’s starting to believe her. 

.

It’s only the next day when Gemma and Al have already left that Harry realizes this whole charade could easily backfire on _him_. He hadn’t even thought of that. Because he actually called Louis and asked if there was a bake sale, and he’d said no. And now Al is turning up with a tupperware of homemade jaffa cakes?

Louis probably thinks Harry’s a complete nutter. 

Harry can’t even focus on anything else that day. He keeps thinking about Al in class with a pile of jaffa cakes and a confused Louis having to deal with it. Gemma had mentioned something about sweets not being permitted into the school. What if Al got into trouble for bringing them? Enough treats to a whole grade is probably enough for a permanent black mark on her record. 

“Harry, if you’re so worried why don’t you go pick her up today?” Gemma suggests when he calls for the third time, just checking in to see if the school had gotten in touch with her. "Sweet talk her out of whatever trouble you think she's gotten into."

"It's not funny," he adds surly, to which Gemma has the audacity to laugh.

"It kind of is. She's too young for detention. She's not getting graded. She's going to live through this, I promise."

Still, that’s how Harry finds himself loitering the halls of Al’s primary school, looking for her classroom. He follows the stream of parents and their kids, peeking into a few classrooms on the way, until he nearly collides with Louis on his way out of a classroom.

“Oh, Harry, hey,” Louis’ eyes go wide with surprise, but only for a split second. He recovers quickly, mouth twitching as he backs back into his classroom. “I’m guessing you’re here for Al?”

“I--Yeah.”

“She’s in the gym, dance elective on Mondays.”

“Right. Right,” Harry mutters, scrubbing his face. 

“Was there a reason Al turned up with three dozen cakes other than clogging her teachers’ arteries?” Louis teases and Harry bites the inside of his lip. 

“Well. It was four dozen.”

Louis laughs, unprompted. “Let me guess, she told you there was a bake sale, which is why you called, and then you decided to see how far she would take it before admitting the truth?”

“Something like that.”

“You’ve got a tough cookie on your hands. Even told me she thought there was a bake sale today,” Louis says, sounding somewhat impressed. “That’s going on her report card.” Harry’s stomach clenches at that, so maybe she is getting into a bit of trouble? But Louis doesn’t seem to be taking things too seriously, asking, “But I guess you might want your tupperware back?” 

Christ. It shouldn’t make Harry’s stomach drop. It shouldn’t make him feel caught out. There’s a glint in Louis’ eye, and he doesn’t seem angry, or bothered. 

“Sure. Sure. I also wanted to uh-- I hope you didn’t get into trouble.”

“Because of the cakes?” Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, eyes going wide. He seems so much in his element in the school, Harry watching as he locks up his classroom and leads the way to the teacher’s lounge. “I couldn’t let the kids have any, which wasn’t a very popular choice but, the teachers were happy. They were amazing,” Louis says handing the tupperware over.

There are still crumbs stuck on the bottom, some smears of chocolate on the underside of the lid. Louis says, “Didn’t have time to clean it, sorry.”

“You had one?” Harry asks, still stuck on the earlier compliment. 

“Yeah, of course. The sweets ban is for the kids not for me.” He shakes his head and crosses his arms, thumb stroking at the edge of his shirt. “Kind of wish I could bring something that good to my friends’ potlucks.”

“I can help with that.” The words tumble out, his brain to mouth filter completely disintegrated around Louis, apparently. He means it, wouldn't mind baking something for him specifically. But it's probably a bit weird to offer, isn't it?

“Oh come off, I wasn't asking for a favor.” Louis laughs, short and loud. Another shake of his head, like Harry is just offering empty words.

Which is probably why Harry goes a bit overboard, says, “No, I’d be happy to, really. When’s the next one?” He must come off a bit intense, Louis studying him carefully, lip bitten. 

“Two days from now. Wine and cheese Wednesday.”

“Okay.” Harry pushes his hair out of his face. “Okay, a cheese theme. Hors d'oeuvres. That sounds fun.” He scratches at his chin, avoiding looking directly at Louis. It’s not like he has anything better to do, is it? Plotting out some canapes and the like would be a good pastime. 

“You really don’t have to, Harry.”

“No, it’s great actually. I don’t get a reason to go all out that often.”

Eventually Louis concedes, and Harry leaves with a bounce in his step. That is, until he approaches the looming brick gymnasium, which is when he realizes that he essentially invited himself along to Louis’ event. Quite insistently, at that.


	11. Louis

Normally awakening to multiple text notifications is something Louis considers a cause for concern, but a careful look reveals all the texts are from Harry’s number. Louis is still bleary eyed, buried under piles of sheets as he he unlocks his phone and scrolls through the messages to see what he might have to say.

_What about puff pastry with brie?_

_Mini spanakopitas?_

_Is poached pears too much?_

Which is followed by a few pictures that Louis presumes illustrate exactly the dishes Harry just suggested. The last text is time stamped just after midnight, _Sorry you’re probably sleeping_

Louis’ stomach grumbles and he rolls out of bed with a grunt. The sad toast in his cupboard is a far cry from the the things Harry texted him. He clings on to his phone like a lifeline as he goes to prepare his meager breakfast. 

He’s still processing that Harry’s just casually (or well, maybe not so casually considering the amount of suggestions he sent) texting him now. That he’s volunteering his time to help Louis. Louis hasn’t even saved Harry’s number to his phone yet. That would feel too much like Harry is a part of Louis’ life then and this isn’t-- that’s not what this is. Al was obviously right about Harry enjoying baking and cooking, enough so that he took the opportunity to do more when it presented itself. 

That’s all this is, Louis reminds himself as he slathers his toast with butter. One bite, two bites, he’s bored of it already, and he drops it back down on his plate. He’s not a breakfast person, he tells himself, although his stomach is clearly protesting. He’s just not a boring toast type of person, his stomach says.

He only has time for quick shower before he has to leave for work, making the most of the hot water to loosen himself up and get ready for the cold outside. He shoots off a, **that sounds like a lot** in response to Harry’s texts before hopping in his car. He opts for coffee on the way to work, a McDonald’s drive-by not too far from the school so he can scorch his tongue with it as he tries to finish it before the kids get dropped off at school. 

By the time lunch rolls around he’s got himself a slew more of texts from Harry waiting for him. More photos, something that looks like dumplings which-- there’s no way he can let Harry make _dumplings_ for him. It’s too much. He’s starting to imagine coming to pick Harry up tomorrow and him having catering style stacks of trays loaded with appetizers. It doesn’t feel like a far fetched possibility, considering the amount of suggestions Harry’s sent him, and that he’s not actually specified which of dishes he’s planning on making

**I can’t let you make all this on your own**

The response is almost immediate, _So come and help_ followed by a cowboy emoji and what Louis presumes is Harry’s address. Louis isn’t sure if he should be reading into the speed of the response or the eagerness it implies but instead of trying to analyze it, he answers just as quick, a promise to stop by after work.

He pockets his phone quickly after that, chest a bit tight at how brash he was. He told himself he wasn’t going to get involved with Harry, he wasn’t going to interfere. But does that really count when Harry’s the one making the moves? (If they are moves at all, he reminds himself, and keeps his jaw tight all through that afternoon’s pageant rehearsals.)

.

The first thing Louis notices when he steps into Harry’s house is the smell. Not just that of the house, but of Harry, himself. The most prominent smell is that of cooking, what he associates with Sunday roasts But when Harry ushers Louis into the foyer with a hand gesture, he’s still holding on to the door. Which means Louis has to brush past him, pretty closely to get by, getting a whiff of his cologne, close enough to taste. 

“Come in, come in,” Harry says in a rush before locking up behind Louis. 

Louis tucks his chin into his scarf to avoid being obvious, to save himself the embarrassment of being caught. These aren’t moves, he reminds himself, trying to get his limbs and his dumb pulse to understand that. 

The second thing Louis notices is that the shoe rack where he puts his Docs also have shoes on there that definitely aren’t Harry’s. 

“Do Gemma and Al come over a lot?” He asks, unwinding his scarf now that Harry’s at a safe distance. He’s walked ahead into the house, but he turns around at Louis’ question, a frown on his face. “The shoes…” Louis clarifies.

“Oh.” Harry shakes his head. “Oh, uh, no they live here.”

“Oh,” Louis echoes, and he wants to take it back as soon as he sees Harry’s face. “I didn’t know,” he adds, casually.

“I know it’s a bit. Unorthodox.” Harry pushes his hair back out of his face, mouth pulling to one side as Louis catches up to him in the corridor.

“I’m sure Gemma appreciated the help when Al was younger.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, the corner of his lip pulled into his mouth. He turns back around, leaving Louis to follow his broad back as he walks towards the kitchen. He stops by a wine cool, knuckles dragging over the top absentmindedly. “Missed a lot when I was away. Don’t want to miss anymore than necessary, you know?”

“I get it,” Louis says, trying to sound as empathetic as possible since Harry’s still not looking at him. A few of his friends had moved closer to their parents when they had kids, just for extra hands on deck. If Gemma had the option to live with Harry, and Harry wanted her and Al there, he didn’t see anything weird about it. But clearly Harry isn’t used to that response.

Harry squats next to the wine fridge and pulls out a bottle of red. This time he turns to Louis to ask, “Anyway, I was thinking one of these wines but I'm not sure what's most appropriate?” 

“Come on, Harry. You’re already bringing over tarts and puff and whatever that is,” Louis says pointing to a brown and grainy paste in a bowl on the kitchen island. 

“The mushroom duxelle is for the gruyere tartlets,” Harry supplies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, his voice going higher with a dash of confusion. It’s enough to make Louis hold back a laugh as he shakes his head. 

“No. No, Harry, you’re not bringing wine. If there’s anything special you want to drink, sure bring that. But you’re definitely not bringing drinks for everyone.

Harry’s still cradling the bottle of wine, and Louis can’t help it, he says, “We can have it now if you’re keen.”

Harry seems to consider it, perching the bottle next to the sink. “Maybe once we get some stuff done.”

Louis nods his agreement and leans over the kitchen island, allowing himself to really surveil the kitchen. There’s a lot of bowls. A lot of gadgets. “I don’t know how much of a help I can be.” He says, his voice low and breath nearly whistling. He’s not going to be helpful _at all_. “Think you’re going to regret letting me in here.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine. If Al can be a good helper I don’t see why you can’t,” Harry says with a hum. He offers Louis an apron, which feels so formal, official somehow. 

He slips it over his head and tightens the belt around his waist but still protests weakly, “You know I’m not scared of a bit of flour and egg. Or milk,” He adds, peering into a bowl that looks like it contains just that. 

“That’s cream. And it’s kitchen safety,” Harry corrects and Louis would tease him more about but they _are_ in Harry’s kitchen, and he _is_ doing Louis a favor. “I already finished this pimento cream cheese.” He offers Louis a bowl and a small spoon so he can have a taste. “Not sure what it should be put on, though. Maybe it works as is. Will they have crackers there or should we make some?”

Spoon still in Louis’ mouth he just nods along to everything Harry is saying, the cheese is creamy and tasty, and he has to stop himself from grabbing another spoonful, since the batch will be shared with everyone. “I’d just keep eating it like that, t’be honest.” 

“Hmm,” Harry studies Louis’ face seriously, as if trying to gauge how sincere he’s being. “So we just need a bag of thins.”

“Sure,” Louis says with a shrug, and Harry nods along, reaching into his pantry and pulls out a few options, as if asking Louis to choose. Louis has absolutely no idea which one would go best with the cheese mixture, but he figures since they’re all Harry’s anyone would do. He picks the one in the middle

“Good choice.” Harry looks pleased, and puts it aside after weighing the box in his palm. He starts wrapping the cream cheese bowl with cling wrap, leaving Louis no choice but to watch. “Alright that’s done. I think.” Harry pauses and looks at Louis intently. “I think the onions can be caramelized. Yes.” He says, and it seems almost like he’s speaking to himself.

Louis gets what Al was talking about. This Harry isn’t the same man that Louis met the first night at the bar, or at the pub, and not even the Harry he met just yesterday. There’s an intensity in his face, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he picks an appropriate onion to slice. The steady hold he has of the knife as he begins chopping. His nose twitches and he makes a face and backs away from the cutting board. “They can GMO everything but they can’t make cry-proof onions,” he laments with a laugh, and Louis laughs too, even though it’s not funny. Because he’s feeling a stupid pull to Harry now, from seeing his bloody eyes water over chopped onions. 

Shit. 

“Alright,” Louis says declaratively, clapping his hands together. “Put me to work before I eat everything and we have to make a second batch,” He needs to be given something to do so he doesn’t just end up stupidly watching Harry work. Not that he would mind getting to watch the way Harry’s face goes serious, his mouth thinning with every option he seems to consider. But it’s not what he’s here for. And Louis really needs to remind himself of that.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry puts Louis’ put to work on grating the gruyere and watching the onions as they simmer in on the hob. “Twenty minutes sounds like a long time,” Louis says, pushing the wooden spoon along the edge of the frying pan. It’s a simple enough task, watching them, but he doesn’t want to risk mucking it up regardless.

“Do they look burned?” Harry asks, with a hint of concern, but he doesn’t look over. At least he trusts Louis to differentiate between crispy and softened onions.

“No, it just seems like they’d get crispy after so long.”

“That’s why the heat is on low. Here, try this,” Harry says, unconcerned, offering him a small golden piece of pastry. It must be what he took out of the oven just before passing the onion duty on to Louis. He plucks the pastry from Harry’s hand, taking a quick nibble before eagerly pushing the rest of the pastry in his mouth. “This is amazing,” he mumbles, mouth still full.

“Great.” He sounds relieved, his shoulders dropping. “You can have more if you want, these were just a test.”

“ _This_ is a prototype? Not the finished thing?” 

“The full size is going to be a baked stuffed brie with cranberry and walnuts,” he holds his finger up, as if to stop Louis from protesting. “It’s much less work than making a dozen bitesize ones. I just wanted to have your seal of approval before doing the whole thing tomorrow. Works out better timing wise to do it on the day”

“I mean, yeah, Approved. Very much approved. It’s fantastic.”

Harry looks dubious. “Really?” 

“I guess if I had to change something I’d make it saltier?” It comes out like a question, because Louis really doesn’t feel like he has the right to tell Harry how to adjust his recipes. But still, Harry seems to take his comment under consideration.

“I could add pancetta. That should contrast well with the cranberry. Might have to cook it first so it doesn’t go soggy in the cheese…Unless I wrap it around the cheese under the phyllo...” Harry bites at his knuckle as his eyes scan over the contents of the fridge. His teeth worry at the skin of his knuckles, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

“You're really good you know. Like really, really good at this.” Louis doesn’t want to put Harry on the spot, especially not since he’s been dismissive of how much work he’s been putting into all of the treats, but it needs to be said. 

“Well, I've had a lot of time to work on it,” Harry dismisses it easily, the refrigerator door closing quickly before he moves back to work on the pastry disks that the onions, cheese and duxelle will be piled on.

“But you like doing it, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry sounds a bit hesitant, pushing the round cutter against the dough. He glances at Louis before continuing, “I started being interested cooking a lot when we were on the road actually.”

“Sounds inconvenient.”

“A bit.” Harry shrugs. He folds some of the leftover pastry together into a new square, ready to be rolled out again. “Sometimes if we stayed at a nice hotel I'd go down to the kitchen and shadow the chefs for a bit.” 

Louis whistles. “Perks of being a pop star.” He’s done grating the wedge of cheese Harry handed him, and he watches as Harry works the dough. 

“That was definitely one.” Harry’s tone is dry, his lips thin and pursed. Almost as if he expects Louis to probe about what the other perks were, what he misses, share the highlight reel. 

It’s not something Louis cares about, not right now, so instead he asks, “So? Does the story end there?”

He knows he’s caught Harry off-guard based on the way his gaze cuts to him, jaw slackened. “No. No, I guess it doesn’t.”

.

Louis realizes when they start putting the fillings on the pastry disks that there’s going to be no proof that he helped create these miniature masterpieces. A bit late, really, they’ve been cooking for a couple of hours, and he’s missed a lot of great photo ops. “Can you grab my phone for a second? I need to document this.”

Harry’s wiping his hands down on a linen, done spreading a thin layer of duxelle on all the pastry discs. “You want a picture?” 

“I’ve got to show my brother this, he’s got a bit of a green thumb too with the baking.” Louis pushes his tongue between his teeth, in thought. “Is it called a baker’s thumb, then?”

“Dunno,” Harry answers, his own mouth twisting a bit, as if trying not to laugh. “I’ll take some on mine, my hands are clean.”

They are clean, and very nice looking hands Louis observes as Harry fidgets with his phone and then directs it at Louis. “Keep working, we need action shots,” Harry insists, and Louis manages to look away. He dabs the tongs on the completed pastries instead of grabbing onion and placing them on there. Which Harry isn’t onboard with, apparently.

“Louis. No faking for the ‘gram.”

Louis can’t hold back his laughter at that, but he still does it. “I’m going to mess ‘em up, this is hard work,” he exaggerates, but he can tell from the corner of his eye that Harry is smiling at him. It’s a goddamn beautiful smile, too. 

“Alright, we’re set,” Harry says, still looking at the phone. “Sent ‘em to you.”

“Right.” Louis uses the back of his wrist to wipe at his chin, a nervous tic that will have to do since he can’t touch his hair. 

“You’re doing great, you know,” Harry teases, stood much closer all of a sudden. He’s reaching for the bowl of grated cheese, that’s all it is. “I guess you don’t do much cooking at home, then?”

“We’re all awful, actually,” Louis pulls a face, almost apologetic, “Except Ernie. He’s shaping up the Tomlinson family diet one recipe at a time.”

“How many’s all of you?”

“There’s seven of us kids,” Louis says, lips pinching together and his cheeks going wide. “So I think everyone will be impressed with this,” he raises his shoulder towards the pastry. “As long as it looks good, cause we need an end result pic too.”

“Sure, sure,” Harry says and finishes up dusting cheese on the last disc. “I’ll take all the pictures you want.” 

It sounds so domestic and sincere, and he’s stood so close already. He’s looking down as he adjusts the disks on the parchment before noticing Louis staring at him and Harry makes eye contact. 

Louis is uncomfortable enough with how close they are that this feels like the perfect time to ask, “You’re on the market, right?

“What market? Housing? Stock? Fish?”  
Louis shakes his head, and even as his head dips lower, Harry seems to mirror him, still staying just as close as before. A hair's breadth away. “No, like, single but also ready to mingle. Available and interested,” Louis clarifies.

“I’m not opposed to that,” Harry says, their eye contact resuming, and a small smile tugging at his mouth. The possibility feels palpable then; that they might kiss. That it might be welcome. Louis even tips his chin up before taking a sharp breath and looking away. He goes to check that the oven is done preheating even though he _knows_ it already is. He needs that little bit of space.

Harry hasn’t moved, and his eyes are still trained on Louis. The smile that was there earlier is gone, though.

“Okay, good, good,” Louis says, and forces a lean against the counter. “I was thinking maybe I could introduce you to someone tomorrow. At the thing.” The thought had crossed his mind, briefly, that there would be a few eligible single men there. It only really seemed like a good idea in the present though. A perfect way to make sure Harry isn’t available for Louis to mess up with. A perfect way to make sure he’s not going to fuck things up for him, again.

“Someone.”

“Yeah, I mean. I didn’t want to just spring that on you. If you’re happy being alone.”

“Right, of course.” Harry says, drily. His smile is back, though this time it seems exaggerated. “Appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Louis says watching as Harry prepares to push the tray in the oven. Louis has already stepped back from the oven a bit, but he still moves a bit further away, still. It goes against what he wants to do; the desire to let himself be pulled into Harry’s magnetism almost overwhelming. 

He’s saved by what sounds like the front door opening, followed by kicking against the side of the door. Like when you’re shedding snow from your boots. But if Harry’s already home…he stills, grip tensing on the edge of the counter. “Is that…”

Harry glances towards the source of the noise. “Yup,” he says, as if it were nothing. And it isn’t anything to him, is it. It’s just that Louis forgot over the past couple of hours that Gemma and Al also lived here. That he didn’t think about them not being in the house which meant they were going to come _home._

“Is this weird for you?” Harry asks, possibly noticing the glimt of panic on Louis’ face.

“No, I think it’s fine, I’m just a bit unprepared,” he says, rubbing his hands down the front of his apron. He thanks Christ they didn’t actually kiss. Then the awkwardness he currently feels would be tenfold. He specifies, “Kids don’t think their teachers exist outside of school after, I think Al’s going to be shocked.”

Harry snickers in understanding. “Well she’ll have to learn that isn’t he case sometime.”

“No time like the present, I guess,” Louis says with a wide, forced smile as he faces the oncoming steps. Al does look surprised to see him, eyes going round, but she recovers faster than Gemma, who doesn’t seem to care that she looks caught off guard as she eyes Louis first and Harry second. 

“Louis,” she says to him, coolly. She doesn’t look angry just-- utterly confused. She turns to Harry, asks, “Were we not supposed to come home tonight?” Harry covers his face with his hands in response, clearly not expecting to be put on the spot in the first place. 

Al seems to have caught on to the technicalities of the situation at least, probably because Louis is actually wearing an apron and has his sleeves rolled up, and the kitchen has clearly been in use. “Did you make all of these with Harry, Mr Louis?”

“I helped, yes.” He turns to Gemma, “Harry’s just helping me out for a thing tomorrow. Needed some snacks. Extravagant ones.” He gestures to the oven even though she can’t see what’s in there. 

“Hmm,” she hums. “Alright,” she says, but it doesn’t seem like she means it entirely. “Alright bug, it’s bathtime. You’ll see Mr Louis tomorrow. At _school_.” She keeps her gaze leveled with Harry’s, suspicion clearly awakened. 

It’s a good thing Louis is going to nip this in the bud, hopefully link Harry along with someone else tomorrow and any trouble can be avoided.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated splitting this chapter in half but I decided to be nice :)

The plan was for Louis to pick Harry up at his house after work so they could load up the food in the backseat and arrive first at Niall’s. That way they can take their time setting up, and they can also greet incoming guests as they arrive, instead of being confronted with a room packed full of strangers. 

What Louis hadn’t considered was that parking has turned out to be a bloody nightmare. 

“You don’t have a regular parking spot?” Harry asks, drumming his fingers against his thigh. They’ve already driven past the block of flats twice, and now Harry’s been put on lookout duty as well.

“Niall’s walking distance from my flat, so I usually just go home after work and walk over.”

“I could’ve driven myself over, you know. I do drive.” There’s a hint of indignance in his voice and Louis presses his lips tight to stop a laugh from escaping. 

He pivots to Harry with wide eyes, explaining, “And then you’d have to not drink so you can drive home again? Takes all the fun out of it. You should be allowed to participate, you know.”

Harry hums and returns his attention to the package of baked brie in his lap. “I think there’s a spot over there,” he directs Louis up the street. About five cars away from Niall’s flat, which is an acceptable distance for them to carry their precious goods. Louis texts Niall to let him know they’re down the street, just so that he can be ready for them. He doesn’t want to hoist all their shit up five flights of stairs and be left waiting at the door for longer than necessary, after all.

.

Niall opens the door just as they reach his floor. “Just got out of the shower when I got your text,” Niall tells Louis. His skin still has a red flush, stray hairs damp against his temple. “Come on in.”

He pats Louis on the back as he lets him in, directing them to the set up table so they can drop off their trays of food. “This is amazing. Way better than anything Tommo ever brings.”

Louis slaps him on the arm. “You love my Pringles. You _love_ my Pimm’s.”

“Alright, alright. But there’s none of that tonight. So thank you, Harry, for this lovely feast.” He sounds sincere, and he is, Louis knows. He watches as they take off their boots, and put up their coats on the rack. “We almost met that one time, sorry about that,” Niall smiles big and loose, offering Harry a handshake once he’s out of his winter gear. 

“All good now. I’m a bit curious though, why’s it Wine and Cheese Wednesday?” 

“Oh, cause it’s not Wednesday, right?” Niall says, as he bends down, dustpan in hand, to sweep the floor where Harry and Louis dragged in salt and dirt. “You didn’t explain this to ‘im?” Niall asks Louis, swatting him with the dustpan.

“Thought you should do the honors, be nice.”

“Well, Harry, it’s simple. It started out as a Wednesday thing but then our schedules changed. And we don’t really care about wine, either. But it sounds better, doesn’t it? Beer and snacks Thursday doesn’t really have the same ring to it, does it?”

“Throw the rulebook out the window, I like it,” Harry says, before resuming the removal of clingfilm from their plates. 

“Oh no, there’s still rules,” Louis says. 

“That’s right,” Niall says with a nod. “Always use coasters. Bottlecaps go in the bin. No outside shoes allowed.”

“I think I can live with that.” 

“Great.” Niall claps his hands together. “So. What’ll you have? The beer’s being chilled on the balcony, the liquor is here.” 

“Gin on the rocks is fine.”

“Alright, we’ll loosen you up in no time,” Niall says with a wink. “I’ll throw in a splash of lime just for you, if you want. And then I’ve gotta go get dressed, but you know where all the booze and cutlery is, Louis, help yourself, and take care of the door, will ya?”

Louis does help himself to a Leffe from the fridge--where the good beer is being hidden--and passes on a few knives and dishes for Harry to lay out next to the canapes. He’s hit with a case of nerves, chest feeling tight, watching Harry dote on the treats. He has no doubt Harry can handle himself around strangers--it’s probably something he’s an expert at, actually--and Louis doesn’t think any of the people they know will be weird about him, but still. 

He feels awfully responsible, is all. And he’s gonna have to foist Harry and Zayn together at some point to see if they hit it off. 

He plucks at the label on his beer at that thought. Deep breath. Maybe the whole set up thing wasn’t such a good idea after all, but he’s committed to it, so he has to follow through, right?

“Are we getting that?” Harry asks when the buzzer cuts through the silence, and Louis smiles tightly.

“Absolutely.”

.

Harry does great welcoming guests, even though it’s not his flat, and he ushers them quickly to the appetizer spread. Either so they can grab something to munch on or so they can add their own offerings, piles of crisps and cheese cubes littering all available surfaces. 

The only hiccup comes when James arrives, forgetting to take off his boots, only returning to the take them off at Louis’ instruction, leaving Louis to roll his eyes behind his back. James isn’t new, he knows Niall’s house rules, and yet he insists on doing things his own way, every time. 

“You look awfully familiar, what do you do?” James asks, hand shaking Harry’s as he eyes him up intently. 

“This and that,” Harry says, fingers curling around his glass. “Wine and Cheese Wednesday is all I’ve got going right now.” 

James’ brows pull tight. He eyes Louis, as if Louis is about to offer up an alternate explanation.

“He made us the best spread we’ve ever had is what,” Niall chimes in, clapping James’ shoulder, catching Siobhan as she slinks in after him as well. He gets behind them and pushes them towards the spread, turning around to make eye contact with Harry and Louis, wide eyes and the mouth pulled down to one side.

“James can be a bit of an arse,” Louis explains. 

“S’alright. Not quite sure how to answer that question these days.”

“I think that was fine. It’s true, innit? Yeah, I’m a teacher but right now I’m not. This is what I’ve got going on right now,” he says, intently, waving his bottle between Harry and himself. 

“Right,” Harry says, exhaling. 

Reem arrives just about then. She mimics a shriek when she sees Louis, and greets Harry just as eagerly, praising the shine in his hair. “Curls are the _worst_ to deal with, how are these babies looking so good?” she asks, fingers just hovering around Harry’s hair, but not touching, not wanting to cross any boundaries.

“It’s a bit of a routine, but I’m happy to share,” Harry responds, and from the moment he lays a hand on her shoulder and Reem’s smile goes even wider.

“I need to get myself a Guinness, but I’ll be back and we can have this chat,” she says gesturing to Harry and herself. 

Louis doesn’t worry after that. He downs the rest of his beer, finding Niall easily. He doesn’t abandon Harry, he just leaves him to go talk to people without Louis hovering behind him, beside him. He doesn’t want to cramp his style, or seem like he doesn’t trust him.

Plus, if he’s with Reem can take care of Harry for now. It’ll save Louis the pressure of directly introducing Harry and Zayn. It can happen naturally, and then Louis can ask them separately how they feel. 

‘Sides, it’s not like he wants people to think that he’s proprietary over Harry, or anything. They’re not a package deal. 

.

It’s only when Louis has downed two beers, three canapes, and started on of the strong ales Niall offers him that he remembers that he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Or certainly not this much. Since he and Niall are on the balcony, having a smoke, it feels like the perfect time to freak out. 

“Shit, I drove Harry over,” he says, holding the neck of the beer, the heavy taste not having left his tongue yet. They’re on the balcony, sharing a cigarette, so Louis takes a pull, as if the tobacco would somehow counteract the alcohol. 

“Just get an uber. Two ubers, whatever,” Niall says as if it’s as easy as pie. “Just get up earlier and come over for your car in the morning.”

Which, yeah, doesn’t sound too complicated. Getting Harry an uber and watching on his phone as his trip gets safely completed isn’t quite the same as driving him back himself, but it should still be fine. His stomach knots at the thought of ditching Harry, even if it is for him to get a ride home, and he drinks more beer to make it go away. The damage has been done already, after all.

James’ laugh breaks through the soft drone of the music, and Louis rolls his eyes. “Why do we invite him again?” Louis asks Niall, and if Niall didn’t get who he meant, he does when he turns to the window and sees James pointing a finger in someone’s face. His side part still slicked in place, the sharpness of his collar intentional. Always in people’s business, always being contrary.

“Reem needs someone to spar with. Or she’d start arguments with everyone else.”

“True.” Louis’ lips press together. He pushes closer against the window, glancing Harry not too far away. He’s with Reem and he watches as she hugs Zayn, bringing him into their group. Great. Things are going absolutely great, Louis tells himself, biting the inside of his lip. 

“Think he’s having fun?” Niall asks, having plucked the cigarette from Louis’ fingers, stood close by. He tips his head towards Harry, as if Louis can’t figure out who he’s talking about. 

“He’s doing well, yeah? Reem seems to be keen on him.”

“I mean yeah but, they’re just talking _at_ him, aren’t they?” Niall asks, the corner of his mouth curling. Reem does talk a lot and Harry nods along. While she pulls someone else into the trio the pattern repeats. Harry seems to give one word responses, and encouraging to speak, but not saying much himself. It’s not how he usually is with him, that’s for sure. 

Niall pushes his thumbnail against his teeth. “I guess. I s’pose he’s used to it, yeah? Being talked at a lot? Not really saying much about himself?”

Louis stomach knots again, and he drinks, again, to make that feeling go away. They’re almost done with their cigarette and he just wants to go inside, wants to sidle up to Harry and have him drop the facade for a little bit. That was the whole point for tonight, after all. 

When they go back inside Louis goes to join Harry, stood alone with Zayn, left by Reem to have a tete-a-tete with someone else, and Louis squeezes Harry’s shoulder before he thinks better of it. He’s not supposed to be acting all familiar with Harry. Zayn doesn’t seem to notice or care. 

“Zayn was just telling me about his slam poetry.”

“It’s not mine. I just run the show,” Zayn clarifies. Harry nods and lifts his glass up in understanding.

“Zayn prefers to write his poetry, don’t you?” Louis tries to help along and Zayn tilts his head towards him, confusion apparent.

“Oh?” Harry asks, encouraging Zayn to say more but he just shrugs. 

It’s in that moment of silence that James comes barreling towards them. 

“Oh sod off, I know who you are!” He exclaims, slapping his hands towards Harry’s chest. “I know why you’re so familiar, you’re that bloke who lost his voice. Can’t sing at all anymore, yeah?”

“Right.” Harry answers humorlessly. 

“Lost a _lot_ of money, huh,” James scrunches his nose. He’s got a grip on Harry’s shoulder that Louis doesn’t like. “Think my sister had tickets to that.”

“Why does it matter, James?” Louis asks, and James doesn’t even do him the decency of looking his way. 

Instead, he just shakes Harry’s shoulder again and says, “Wow, that must suck.”

“Why is that, James?” Louis taunts him, before Harry can respond. Before Harry politely just hums along, agreeing with whatever offensive bullshit James is pushing his way. 

James curls his lips at him. “Just saying. Must suck to know your best days are behind you,” he specifies. “I guess you’d know, though,” James adds, facial expression twisting. Louis’ plastered on smile feels stiffer with each word and bares his teeth. Of course, James can’t have anyone stand up to his bullshit without digging into them, as well. He doesn’t give a shit what James has to say about him. But he cares about Harry being disrespected to his face.

“Dunno ‘bout you, but Harry has his best days ahead. He’s got passion and he cares about others. Killer combo. Looks like you’re enjoying the tarts he made, too,” Louis says. He feels Harry’s fingers closing around his wrist, a calming pull telling him that it’s okay to back off. But fuck, he really doesn’t want to.

Zayn decides to chime in then, redirecting James’ attention, “Is that really a thing though? Who can determine something like that, ultimately. It’s a bit of a spiritual question, isn’t it?”

Enough time passes for Harry to pull Louis away from there. The entry seems natural, and Louis doesn’t even think twice before he’s piling on his coat and beanie. He sees Niall wave him off in the distance, a covert understanding that they’d catch up later. A silent goodbye on his lips, he lets Harry go out ahead of him. 

He can barely believe it. Allowing Harry to be insulted like that at an event _he_ brought him to. He’s vibrating with a quiet rage, the back of his neck itching, his throat tight with all the things he still wants to say. 

Louis manages to collect himself enough to say, “I can get you an uber home.” Despite his nails still digging into his palm, his jaw still tight, he’s still painfully aware that he can’t drive Harry back home, which feels like another failure. He’s already upset with himself that he might’ve embarrassed Harry, who’s done absolutely nothing to deserve it. 

“I don’t want to go home,” Harry says, and he stops not far from the stoop. Louis gets closer again. 

“You want to go back inside? Yeah, shit. Of course.” He shakes his head. Harry probably just brought him outside for Louis to cool down. That doesn’t mean he wants to admit defeat and walk away. _Stupid._

“No, that’s not it,” Harry says, nostrils flaring and his brows pulling tight. Louis blinks at him, his flushed face. They’ve only just stepped out, not been outside long enough to get cold, but Louis still feels frozen. “Louis.”

“Yeah?” Louis starts to say, and before he can finish, Harry’s mouth is on his. It’s a confident press of lips, Harry’s bare hands reaching for him, his jaw, the front of his scarf. And Louis does the same. His shoes bump against Harry’s from how close he’s shuffled. With Harry’s coat open it’s easier, more welcoming for Louis to slide his hands in there. Against Harry’s warm sides, thumb grazing against his chest. 

They pull apart, noses nearly brushing. Harry’s so warm against Louis’ hands. His own slowly pulling away from Louis. Harry himself doesn’t move, though, his chest rising and falling under Louis’ fingertips.

“Okay,” Louis says, and grabs Harry’s hand.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a lot of plot development but hopefully still appreciated ;)

Louis feet carry them away from Niall’s flat. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, just anywhere but here. He still feels a twist in his gut at having brough Harry here, so he wants to be as far away as possible. And selfishly, he doesn’t want to associate it with the taste of Harry’s mouth, either.

They only make it to the closest zebra crossing, stop signal glaring, before Harry pulls Louis into him again. His mouth finding Louis’, opening just enough for his tongue to get a taste and leave Louis blinking when they pull apart. 

He doesn’t know what to do other than cross the street, and Harry follows. They kiss again at the next stop, and the one after that, missing a walk signal because Louis wouldn’t let go. It’s so easy to fall into it. Letting the buzz of alcohol melt away and be replaced with a different kind. 

Harry pulls him close at every traffic light, and Louis lets himself be. It’s easy to be pulled back into Harry’s gravity when they’ve already collided. It’s like their chests want to align, hands want to touch skin, mouths want to meet. Again, and again. 

He starts recognizing that they’re near his flat when they’re a street away. The chill has started to seep under his coat, his wrist and neck getting cold. The fog of anger has lifted from him, mostly because he can’t think about anything beyond Harry, so unwilling to let go of Louis for even a second, next to him, right in front of his flat.

“Um.” 

It’s not that late, there’s no reason why they can’t just-- have some tea, maybe watch something. Reclaim the evening. ( _Yeah, right_ , a voice in his head says, but he pushes it away, pushes away anything that might allow him to stop what’s happening.) “Do you want to come in?” Louis asks.

Harry blinks, lashes heavy, before nodding. “Yeah.”

It’s sobering, walking into his flat with Harry on his heels. It makes him notices things that he wouldn't normally. Like the dishes on the counter. The bottles of nail polish on his end tables that Fizzy left at his place months ago, yet to be returned. CDs and DVDs in front of the the TV set, yet to be filed away. It’s fine, it’s probably better, to turn things around, that his place is a bit of a mess. He should be relieved, but that’s definitely not what’s happening.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna--” He points his thumb towards the kitchen nook. “Tea.” He assumes from Harry’s nod of the head that he understands what Louis is saying, so Louis quickly pivots toward the kitchen. 

Tucked away, Louis can get a second to collect himself. He can get a second to focus on the kettle heating, the familiar electric hum comforting. He can play keep his hands busy with the mugs, turning them around over and over. He should probably prepare himself for what he’s going to face when he leaves the kitchen. There aren’t many places for Harry to ‘make himself comfortable’ so Louis can imagine him on the corner of the sofa. Probably with his legs spread, inviting Louis to get closer. Louis’ll have to sit on the opposite side then. Or on the floor. He could do that, drop off the mug of tea and then sit on the floor. It might be weird but it would also interrupt the seduction game that Harry’s playing.

Well. 

It’s more of a dance, really, Louis reluctantly admits to himself. He’s not just been going along, he’s the one who snuck his hand below Harry’s shirt, greedy for the feel of his bare skin. He’s the one who nipped at Harry’s lip, with a moan. He’s the one who told Harry he was getting hard.

_Fuck._ He pushes his knuckles against his forehead. It’s impossible. If he walks into that living room and faces Harry-- It’s not about resisting Harry. It’s about stopping himself.

Fingers press against the top of Louis’ hips, hot breath trailing down the back of his neck. Somehow he didn’t account for this; Harry derailing his crisis with eager fingers and an even more eager mouth.

“Can I be honest?” Harry asks, and Louis just _uh huhs_ breath still caught in his throat, arms taut with how hard he’s trying not to just fall into Harry’s arms. His thumb grazes to the front of Louis’ jeans, and back around again. “I thought tea was code for sex.”

“Is that how you do it?” Louis manages to mutter, practically on autopilot. “Offer someone tea and just strip as soon as you walk in the door?”

“Would you’ve preferred that?” Harry’s hands don’t hesitate anymore, wrapping firmly around Louis’ middle, the heel of his palm going down to rub at Louis groin.

Louis is hard, of course he’s hard. Just kissing Harry on the way was turning him on, and now he’s got the man pressed up behind him, his hair tickling the top of his cheekbones, nearly getting in his eyes.

“Hold on,” Louis says, and Harry catches it immediately, pausing his movements. Louis first pushes the kettle out of the way and then turns around in Harry’s embrace. He hops on the counter and spreads his legs so Harry can step between them.

It’s easier to kiss like this, and Louis takes the opportunity to map out Harry’s jaw with his fingertips. His tongue pushes at the seam of Harry’s mouth, and he opens with a sigh, tongue meeting his. 

Louis can only think of that. Harry’s smell, Harry’s taste, the rough feel of his tongue, and then also, his hand on his cock. He’s got Louis’ jeans open, his hand wrapping firmly around him. Louis can’t help the quick jerk that follows, his hips pushing hip closer, deeper into Harry’s grip.

“Fuck.” Louis gasps, his mouth going slack with each of Harry’s strokes. “You too, you too,” he mutters deliriously. 

“Okay,” Harry says, but won’t let go of him. He tries to undo his own trousers with one hand, which just won’t do, so Louis helps out, dragging them lower and lower, until they’re bunched halfway down Harry’s hips. Louis pulls down Harry’s pants as well. Harry’s buried his face in the crook of Louis’ neck, lazily sucking and licking at the skin there, making Louis aware of an erogenous zone he didn’t know he had.

He takes the opportunity to lick the palm of his hand before wrapping his fingers around Harry.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry says and his breath is sudden against Louis’ collarbone. “ _Louis_.”

“Yeah, you’re alright,” Louis says. He thumbs at Harry’s slit, precum oozing, making the slip of his hand go even easier as he teases the foreskin. The way Harry’s stood makes it easy for Louis to lean into him, whispering, ”Mhm, you feel good. Big,” as he punctuates it with a squeeze.

“Fuck.” Harry mutters, and his own grip around Louis tightens. Louis can’t tell who jerks first, their movements in and out of sync, but echoing between them. He grunts, he knows he does, the pit of his belly going hot and tense. But he also feels like with every slide of his hand his and Harry’s pleasures intertwine, becoming completely indistinguishable.

It’s only when Harry starts mouthing at his neck, jaw wide enough that his teeth press against Louis’ skin that he realizes Harry’s going to come. He speeds up, twisting his hand until Harry spills hotly between them. 

Harry presses his teeth against Louis’ skin--not a bite, just a pleasant awareness, and his hands just pull at the hem of Louis’ sweater. Not wanting to ruin anything else, Louis wipes his hand off on his own shirt.

“Hey,” Harry says as he watches him. 

He doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say, so he just says, “Hey,” too, blinking stupidly as Harry licks his lips. Harry uses the back of his wrist to wipe his forehead and then. Then suddenly, he’s on his knees.

He’s on his bloody knees and he fists Louis’ cock before taking it in his mouth. 

Louis’ tilts his head backwards, hitting the cabinet as he tries to keep his fingers gripped around the counter instead of burying them in Harry’s hair. It’s difficult though, it’s difficult with Harry’s pouty mouth wrapped tightly around Louis’ cock, his tongue teasing the head. 

Louis looks down, has to see this, and he’s met with Harry’s eyes on him. He slurps when they make eye contact, and a gasp punches out of Louis’ chest. “Fuck, Harry.”

He can’t help it. With one hand going rigid with how hard he’s gripping the counter, the other finds its way into Harry’s hair.

He doesn’t pull, doesn’t even tangle Harry’s hair. Just strokes at his temple, fingers scratching at his scalp. And Harry leans into it, head pushing closer into Louis’ palm. That’s what makes Louis come. He lets out a strangled groan, unable to stay quiet as Harry keeps sucking him, swallowing every pulse. “Harry,” Louis says at last, fingers still playing with the dampened hair at Harry’s temple.

Louis should ask him again, if he wants to go home. It’s a school night, he has work in the morning. Harry’s probably busy, too. It’s not even that late, an urgent need to sleep not a reasonable excuse for him to stay when he could go home.

But he doesn’t want Harry to leave, even when all logic dictates that he should. And that’s a problem, isn’t it?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit shorter than usual, apologies, but i'm pacing out the remaining days. thank you so much for following along.

Louis decides to go to pick up the dishes Harry left at Niall’s right after the school day wraps up. Niall seems surprised that Louis wants to get them that quickly, but at least it’s an excuse for a Friday hang, and he doesn’t turn those down often. 

Nial is right though, it’s uncharacteristic for Louis to be this quick to pick up something he’d left behind. The hoodie and Playstation that have lived at Niall’s house for months are proof of that. And Louis isn’t actually in a rush to return the dishes to Harry--if anything, being this quick serves as a reminder that he’ll _have_ to see Harry again, soon in order to return his possessions. He’s definitely not eagery to think about that but the alternative to going to see Niall right after work is going back to his flat. And Louis really doesn’t want to do that just yet. As much as he’s been trying to push Harry out of his mind, going home would make that absolutely impossible. His sheets probably still smell like him, for Chrissake. 

So going by Niall’s it is. He doesn’t want to take an uber, too restless to be driven around, hunkered down in someone’s backseat, so he decides to walk. It’s not like he’s in a rush. Niall probably isn’t even out of his office yet, since Louis’ has managed to walk away from the school just before five.

Walking is way better, allowing him to stop to at Archie’s to pick up food for the two of them. And he can replay the previous night's events guilt-free. He’s already spent a large portion of the day thinking about it--not the dirty parts, but what came after. And as he narrows his eyes as he walks against the wind, cheeks getting chafed, he can let his mind wander and remember what had happened.

He and Harry had gone straight to bed after getting off, apparently orgasms being as much of a sleep aid as red wine to Harry. His eyes were droopy, his arms draped heavy around Louis. There really wasn’t any other option than walking him backwards towards Louis’ room, and bed. An octopus of a man while they were standing, Harry rolled against the far side of the bed easily as soon as he landed on it. 

Louis picked at his Ikea laundry bag, at the top of which his cleanest sleep clothes lay. He’d gotten in the habit of sleeping in his pants, but he didn’t want to risk it with Harry in his bed. When he’d turned around Harry had been facing him, even in the darkened room his gaze seemed focused and intent. More awake than he’d been just five minutes earlier.

Harry had turned onto his side, head digging into the pillow.

“Is it okay? Me staying?” He’d asked. 

“Yeah. You can borrow something from me to wear, if you like. ‘Ve got some actually clean stuff in my closet.”

Harry had rubbed at his eyes before pulling his trousers off all the way, kicking them to the end of the bed. They’d tipped over with an easy push of his feet. “‘M okay.” Harry had said, and also wrangled his way out of his shirt. That one he left to his side, and Louis picked it up for him, loosely folding it and placing it next to Harry’s trousers. “Thanks,” Harry’d muttered.

“I have to be up at seven,” Louis had said, feeling a bit bad to force his early schedule on Harry. In another life he would’ve calling in sick, taken a day, whatever. It would’ve been worth it just to be able to maintain the cocoon of comfort between the two of them. 

“‘S fine,” Harry had practically slurred, clumsily trying to pull the sheets from under himself without getting up. Louis got into bed, and before he plugged the charger into his phone, he texted Liam asking if he could pick him up on the way to work the next morning. 

Harry was either sleeping already, or nearly there, his lips parted and hair a tangling over his face. He was still on his side, face smushed into the pillow, and Louis had simply faced him, and tried to take in as much of Harry’s face before falling asleep himself.

The next morning Harry had kept his word and gotten up with Louis, nary a complaint heard. Harry’s face had remained somewhat tense, seemingly with the effort of keeping himself awake. They’d been slow enough to get up and ready that they only had time for a nespresso each, and quick showers. Harry had called a taxi to take him home, and they’d even waited at the kerb for their cars together. Their rides arrived near simultaneously, which meant they could only wave goodbye to each other as they each jogged to their respective cars.

The weird thing was that as much as it should’ve been, it wasn’t an morning after or an awkward goodbye. Harry had existed in Louis’ space so easily. He’d been himself from the moment he’d kissed Louis outside Niall’s flat and remained the same until they separated. Sure, he’d knocked over all of Louis’ shampoo and soap bottles while he showered, and he’d nearly brained himself on the open mug cabinet. But that was just the regular clumsy Harry that Louis had gotten to know.

And that ease, that comfort was a fog Louis had willingly walked into, as well. The awkwardness came once they were apart. When the real world encroached and Louis remembered telling off James, when Al’s hand went up in class, when he glanced at the wall of wishes. When he remembered that he’d unintentionally sabotaged his own set-up, and a situation that would be far less complicated than what Louis has to offer.


	16. Chapter 16

“It’s a real rarity, seeing you two days in a row,” Niall claps Louis happily on the shoulder, welcoming into his flat. His tie has been loosened, as well as his cuffs. 

Crouching down to untie his booths, Louis glances around the flat and he’s reminded of why Niall is the one to host the monthly get togethers. There’s no indication that he hosted a dozen or so people the night before; no stray plastic cups or bottles and no overflowing bins. Not even any litter bags by the door. All that’s in sight is a covered bowl of cheesy popcorn that that could’ve been leftover from a movie night. 

“Brought Archie’s,” Louis says, gesturing with the heavy bag before dropping it in front of Niall. He peeks inside with a low whistle.

“Ohhh. My heartburn says no, but my stomach says fuck yeah.” Niall pulls his tie over his head, and unknots it, rolling it up as he watches Louis carefully. He fills himself a glass of water from the tap, just so he has something to do with his hands as he’s being watched.

“So,” Niall says at last. “Your dishes are on the drying rack.”

“Cool.” Louis nods, taking a sip, teeth tugging at his lip after swallowing. 

Niall raises one eyebrow at him, but doesn’t pry further. This is one of the reasons Louis’ glad Niall is the one he gets to talk to about this. Niall isn’t a snoop. He’s not a gossip. He’s not someone that likes to trick people into opening up. But he’s also still very observant, and he’s got his opinions and pretty good judgement. 

“D’you think Harry made any friends?” Louis asks, tentatively, voice going surprisingly high, belying his nerves.

“Dunno, mate, he left with you, didn’t he?” 

Louis grimaces. “I was trying to set him up with Zayn.”

That’s the first time Niall’s expression turns close to sour. His forehead pinched, a near sneer as he he says, “ _Zayn_? That sounds like a terrible idea. What’s wrong with you?” Niall tosses popcorn at him, hitting him square in the chest.

“You know _you’re_ gonna have to clean that up.”

“Yeah, well. It’s worth the mess,” Niall says with another perfect popcorn toss. Louis flinches reflexively and moves out of the way.

“This is what I get for being a good friend? Coming by, picking up dishes taking up your precious cabinet space. Bringing you food.” 

“No, it’s what you get for being an eejit.” Niall’s chin is tucked low, forehead creasing from how high his eyebrows are pushed up.

“Really.” Louis stares back at him, unmoving, but there must’ve been a revealing quirk of his eye, or twitch of his lip because Niall rolls his eyes.

“You don’t want him with Zayn, even your face when you said it was like--” Niall grimaces, making a face that definitely doesn’t match any expression Louis has ever made. “You want him to go out with Zayn and be floored by what a beautiful bastard he is but realize that he has nothing in common with him and that you’re definitely a better choice.”

Louis eyebrows jerk up. “I most definitely do not want that.” His mouth pulls tight to the sides. “And they do have shit in common. They’re both creative people. Wicked fit.”

Niall’s puckered mouth reveals his complete disbelief in everything Louis is saying. “Mhm. Is that why you blew up at James.”

“He was insulting Harry, to his face. And in front of Zayn.” He tips his glass to the side. Trying to pull at every excuse from the recesses of his brain, anything not to admit out loud that he felt protective of Harry for no other reason than he cared about him. And he fucking hated James. 

“Zayn doesn’t care what James says, are you joking? No one listens to him.”

Louis gestures at Niall in protest. “He was cockblocking.” 

“Ha! I think you were the real cockblock there.”

Louis can’t help the sigh that escapes him. Defeated, he says, “We hooked up.”

The cackle that comes out of Niall is steady and loud. Of course. “No fucking shit. See, eejit.” Niall cocks his head to the side before shaking it in disbelief. He waits for a beat before asking, “You want a beer?” 

“Fuck no. It’s not even my birthday yet and I already feel like I’ve had too much to drink this month. The shake is enough for me.”

“Alright, alright.” Niall pulls out plates, bringing them to the telly, so they have a place to pile on all the chips and onion rings, the side of pickles for Niall. All the fixings to get into a serious food coma which is how he likes to spend his Friday nights in the first place.

Niall places his beer and Louis’ water on the table, stealing a few chips before tossing Louis some pillows to make himself comfortable. But despite lingering, Niall doesn’t sit down just yet, glancing towards the dropped popcorn.

“I’m sorry, I have to clean this up, before we eat,” Niall says, leaving to pick up his trusty dustpan to clean up his own mess.

It leaves Louis the chance to turn on the telly and tune into the footie game that’s on. Pumping up the volume until the cheers of the crowd roar out of the speakers.

It wouldn't be fair to say he regrets getting off with Harry, wouldn't be factual either, because he doesn’t. It was too good, too comfortable to be regrettable. But his impulses had clearly gotten the best of him, again. He wasn’t supposed to get involved, wasn’t supposed to interfere. His throat burns at that thought, that he’d been selfish enough to try and meddle for selfish reasons. Because he wanted-- _wants_ \--Harry, despite not being the best for him. Not only that, but Al's wish hovering like a ticking bomb. He doesn't know how Harry will react when he finds out that Louis knew that he was lonely, if he'll think Louis was taking advantage, plotting ahead.

He’s jerked out of his thoughts when Niall drops down next to him, asks, “Chelsea playing?” with a glance to the telly. He picks at this burger and puts his feet up. At least Louis doesn’t have to think about this for the next two hours.


	17. Chapter 17

The Tomlinson tradition is to not decorate the family house until they can all do it together. This year, busy schedules has made the first day they could all gather the Sunday before Christmas.

It’s a bit weird and delayed, feeling like the Christmas season hasn’t even come into full swing yet. Louis hasn’t even done anything to his own flat, since he typically picks leftover ornaments and garlands from the house to carry over to his flat.

Boxes have been dragged into the living room and it’s Louis’ job to assemble the tree this year. Barney noses at the busted corners of the box, and Louis has to pry it open one handed, pushing Barney’s snout away.

Phoebe and Daisy are the self-appointed DJs, incredibly proud of their custom Christmas playlist. They keep pausing when a new song comes on, exclaiming that _this is the best one, Fiz, listen to this one._ Doris is the only one who seems to play into their excitement, a Santa hat pulled low on her head, and tinsel that should be on the tree draped over her arms. She’s still contributing, putting up the wall and window stickers while dancing along to the music. 

“You’re gonna have to help me with the ornaments,” Louis says with a huff when the top piece of the tree has been mounted, and his arms are scratched up from fighting with all the pieces. 

Everyone is in charge of putting up their childhood ornaments in the tree, a challenging feet to fit all of them without the branches drooping. But it’s worth it in the end, the angel at the top of the tree that was their mum’s favourite. 

Before supper, Lottie insists that they all go outside and look at the christmas lights she and Mark had hoisted over the facade. “I didn’t sweat my arse off for this not to be appreciated,” she says, pulling at her hair absentmindedly, shooing them all outside.

“You can do the tree next year then,” Louis says, showing Lottie his scratched up arms. 

She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a contest.” 

Which is where she’s wrong, it’s always a contest. He says as much, as he puts his coat back on. Digging into his pocket and gripping his phone he realizes he hasn’t checked it all day. He tries to discreetly sneak a peek, only noticing that the text is from Harry’s still unsaved number before Lottie spooks him from behind, pulling the hood of his coat over his head, far enough that he gets disoriented and misses a step when he walks out of the house.

“Looks like I won,” Lottie says, sticking her tongue out at him. She raises her eyebrow at the phone in his hand and he shrugs at her. If he stays behind the others he can sneak a look at what Harry’s text says.  
Phoebe and Doris _ooh,_ over the lights, and Lottie encourages the group of them to cross the street to get the full effect.

Louis stalls, opting to look at his phone instead. 

Harry’s text is an innocent, _Hey, how’s it going?_ sent four hours ago. He clenches his jaw, glancing towards his family across the street.

**House decorating with the fam** , Louis types up quickly, trying to keep his texting hidden. He’s not sure if it’s too dismissive, so he adds, **you?** to keep the conversation going. He might not know exactly where he stands with Harry, but he doesn’t want to brush him off. 

.

To Ernest’s displeasure the shepherd’s pie that gets served for dinner is a bit mealy, but it’s still better than anything any of the others could’ve possibly pulled off. “Fiz was on potato duty. This is on her,” he declares.

“Rude,” Fizzy says, pointing at him with her fork. 

“I think it’s fantastic,” Louis says, mouth full. “The cheesy cauliflower, though, not that cheesy.”

“That’s on purpose, this is healthier,” Ernest says.

Louis hums his disagreement, formulating his retort, but before he gets a chance to speak his arm is clutched from behind. He doesn’t get a chance to glance behind him before he hears Lottie in his ear. “Louis you can give me a ride home, won’t you? Wouldn’t let your poor sister take the tram?” It’s a bit of a dramatic way of asking, but he can certainly do it. Not that Lottie pays much attention to his response, dashing off to the kitchen with a pat of his back.

Fizzy has her fingers steepled under her chin, looking at him expectantly. “Well?” 

He’s lost his train of thought, only remember that they’d complimented the pie, so he ponders out loud, “Might take the leftovers home if you don’t mind.”

“Along with all our tinsel, huh?” Fizzy comments, head tilted to the side.

“Just the leftovers, Fizzy pop.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at her lips, he knows it. 

.

Louis hasn’t had a chance to look at his phone to see if Harry answered him. So he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, ready to get home to his flat where he can dive into his bed and cocoon himself into his sheets to figure out a course of action.

Lottie plugs her phone into the aux as soon as she gets into the car, nodding her head along to the music. “I heard this girl is horrid to her stylists,” Lottie comments about whoever is playing now, Louis hasn’t paid attention. And yet she’s on your playlist, Louis thinks, but he’s not about to start any discussion. He wants to get in and out as quickly as possible. 

Lottie has more comments to deliver about the artists on her playlist, and often follows the gossip with a laugh. He hums along to everything, not wanting to get into a discussion that would require continuing. Just a quick, easy drop off and he can check his phone and then drive home.

That plan is thwarted as soon as he pulls up to Lottie’s flat. 

“Come up for tea,” she suggests, smacking her gum and pulling her iphone free. She doesn’t give him a chance to say no, quickly ducking out of the car, expecting him to follow her.

Louis exhales through gritted teeth and tightens his fist around his phone in his pocket.

.

Lottie doesn’t make any pretense to go for the kettly, dropping immediately into one of her armchairs, slinging her legs over the armest. She loosens the string of her joggers, and rubs at her stomach. 

“Alright, you have to hit me with your hot goss, now. Bloated and knackered. I deserve it.”

Louis’ twists, and he crosses his arms before he realizes he could make tea. Tea is a much better thing to occupy himself with. It’s the perfect thing to do with your hands when you’re trying not to spill your guts to your nosy sister.

“I don’t have any _goss_ ,” he says, easily. “I never bother you about your personal life.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m an open book. I don’t mind talking about it. This weekend was really busy, actually--”

“Okay, stop! I don’t need to hear anything,” he winces, glaring at her.

She just shrugs, and twists her head against the chair. She smirks. “Looks like I win again.” 

Lottie purses her lips, having dropped into the armchair, her legs over the armrest. “Is it a dad?” Her eyebrows raised.

“Is what a dad?” He asks, innocently.

“The guy you’re texting.”

“I’m not texting anyone.”

“So you’re telling me if I looked at your phone right now there wouldn’t be at least one message waiting for you from a man?” The disbelief radiates from her, a corner of her mouth quirked to the side. Even the way she kicks her foot in the air tells him she doesn’t buy his shit.

He could hand her his phone. There might not be a text there. And then he’d win this round and she’d lay off him. But there might be a text from Harry. And while it might be completely innocent, he doesn’t want to share it with anyone. He doesn’t want their relationship, whatever it is and might be, to be put under a microscope, each word and emoji choice dissected and analyzed.

Eventually he pulls his phone out of his pocket, twisting it in his hands. If he’s going to tell her, he might as well check for a text, right? 

“It’s not a dad. It’s an uncle.” He presses his mouth together after he speaks, and watches Lottie ponder the words. 

“Okay,” she drags it out. “Still pretty juicy. Does he know you like him?”

Louis can’t help the laugh that escapes, almost like a bark, cut short. “Uhm. Yeah.”

“Alright, salt,” she says narrowing her eyes at him. “Put the kettle one, will you? Peppermint for me.”

“Sure, sure,” he goes to fix the kettle, waiting to hear what she has to say. 

“You don’t think you’re good enough for him,” she declares, finally.

Louis sighs. He cannot tell Lottie who Harry is. She’d be absolutely insufferable and unable to drop it, and would insist on meeting Harry regardless of what happened. So instead of saying the truth, _he’s famous, which I can’t compete with_ , he says, “He has a pretty high standard of living.”

“He’s loaded.” Her eyes widen, “Is he a sugar daddy? Because we need to be having a different talk if that’s the case,” she quickly adds, her bottom lip obscured with her teeth.

“No.” He presses his palms against the counter, making direct eye contact with her. “Unequivocally, no. And please. Let’s not ever talk _sugar daddies_ again, I don’t think I can handle that coming from you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Alright, whatever. So you think you can’t compete with that because you’re just a teacher stuck in a town the size of a post stamp.”

“He’s here too,” he glowers at her. The kettle clicks off, steam funneling out of the spout and he pours it into their respective cups. Peppermint for her, chamomile for him. 

“Yeah, but he could leave, easy, right? That’s what you’re saying.” 

James’ words echo back to him, that he’d wasted time staying in town. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Yeah, obviously. I’m just saying what _you’re_ thinking. Which is stupid.” She waggles her eyebrows, satisfied with her verdict. “If he knows you’re into him, and he’s still texting you, you should fucking go for it. Now give me my tea.”

Lottie’s optimism is a band-aid. Just as Niall’s was, the complete and utter disbelief that Harry would want to be with anyone other than Louis. That it was plain as day that they were both ridiculously into each other. But neither Lottie or Niall knew about Al’s wish. None of them knew the circumstances under which he and Harry got to know each other. He couldn’t stomach talking about that with them, scared of what they might say. 

His phone does have a response from Harry when he gets a chance to check it.


	18. Chapter 18

The resolution to Louis’ text conversation with Harry is that Harry wants to make him supper. He doesn’t call it a date, but considering the circumstances it’s hard to see it as anything but.

It doesn’t seem like a good idea, not just because Louis' schedule is growing madder by the day as the school pageant approaches, but also because Louis doesn’t trust himself to be alone with Harry in private. In close quarters. Where he might get distracted. 

But he does want to see Harry, and he thinks he should talk to him in person about them--whatever they might be, and how Al figures into all of that. So as a compromise Louis suggests going to a cafe close to the school, after hours.

It’s surprisingly busy when they meet up there, Louis pegged it for a lunch spot but apparently he was wrong about that. Louis is left to find seats for the two them, letting Harry order for him at the counter. 

He unwinds his scarf and jacket, putting them up on the coat hanger by the entrance and watches Harry move among the crowd. It’s the first time he’s out with Harry and feels hyper-aware that he might get recognized and their night might be interrupted, and it strikes him that this must be what it’s like to be Harry all the time. Always wondering if his day is going to be derailed, whether by a well-meaning fan or someone like James. Just thinking about him leaves a sour taste in Louis' mouth, and he opts to go get cups of water from the communal pitcher for the two of them as he waits. 

“Don’t know if you come here a lot, but they recommended the crepes,” Harry says as he shoulders his way to the spot Louis secured for them. They have to do with a window counter, perched on high stools which make Louis weirdly self-conscious about his posture, feeling himself sit straighter than normal as he watches Harry move their plates from the tray he's carrying. 

“Nah, I stay in the teacher’s lounge most of the time. I know some of the older students love it though. I’ve smelled the nutella waffles in the corridors on more than one occasion.” 

“Well this is spinach and ricotta, no nutella crepes for dinner service. But if they’re good maybe we can come back,” Harry says as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Which, Christ, Louis really wants to believe in. 

He’s willing to give the meal a chance, taking a large a bite that he ends up holding in his mouth before reluctantly continuing to chew and swallowing down his bite. 

He can’t hide his distate from Harry, who is digging in with gusto and makes a face at Louis’ discomfort. “Not a big spinach fan?” 

Louis tips his head from side to side, eyebrows knotted in apology. “I think there’s avocado in this, which uh, isn’t my favourite. The salad looks nice though.” 

Louis prods at his salad instead, skewering a sliced tomato and some shredded carrot, making an exaggerated satisfied face as he munches on it. “See, delicious.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, making a face. “You can have my salad if you want?”

“Trading food already, huh?” Louis teases and Harry just shrugs, shoulders slightly slumped. Louis can’t help reflexively looking around them to see if anyone is paying attention to them as Harry forks over his salad onto Louis’ plate, but no one seems to be paying attention.

“Actually,” Louis starts, “ _I_ wanted to apologize.” As soon as the words are out Louis can tell Harry stiffens up, his crepe bite paused as he stares resolutely ahead. Louis’ heart flutters nervously, and he’s quick to add, “about causing a scene, with James.” 

Louis picks at his plate but he can tell from the corner of his eye that Harry has relaxed significantly. “Oh. I don’t think-- does that count as a scene? ‘Ve seen much worse.” His eyes are slitted when Louis does look at him, prompted by the brush of Harry’s little finger against the top of his hand. He teases, “I think I’ve _done_ worse.”

“And here I thought all those diva stories were made up.”

Harry barks out a short laugh, holding back as soon as he can. “I don’t think these ones made the papers.”

This topic feels much better, much lighter, but Louis knows that he needs to keep pushing. 

“I uh, actually asked you here because it’s close to the school.”

Harry nods as he keeps eating, his crepe already near demolished. At least he's enjoying it. Harry covers his mouth with his hand when he speaks, “Yeah, you’ve been busy with the pageant, I get it.”

“No.” Louis’ brows pinch. “I mean, yeah, I’ve been busy. Last minute details. Nerves that need to be calmed before the big performance.” He can’t help the smile when he thinks of how proud he is of his kids. “But I actually wanted to show you something at the school so coming here was easiest.”

"Two birds, one stone." Harry’s throat bobs as he swallows. He doesn’t get it, of course not. But he still agrees. "I hope it’s not going to ruin the show for me, I don’t want to be spoiled,” he teases, and Louis’ gut clenches. He wishes it were that simple. 

The chill is potent when they leave the cafe, and Louis hasn’t closed his jacket and his scarf hangs loose around his neck. Harry fixes his clothes.

Without much hesitation, he grabs Harry’s hand. Harry’s face goes bright at that and before they pull to the side of the door.

“Thank you for dinner,” Harry says, and Louis grimaces. Harry lets out a bark of a laugh at that. “Next time we can go someplace you enjoy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Next time,” Louis repeats. Harry hums, looking pleased. His frown is gone, and he presses himself against the wall of the building, practically begging Louis to come closer and kiss him.

It’s not a request Louis can deny, wetting his lips before bracing himself against Harry’s hips, letting himself have this. Harry sighs into the kiss, and he clutches at Louis’ jacket; a stark reminder that they’re in public and can’t get too carried away.


	19. Harry

Aside from coming to pick up Al and attending her class graduations (which technically took place in the auditorium and not the school proper), Harry hasn’t stepped foot in a primary school in decades.

He’s certainly never been in an empty primary school at night. He remembers dances and parties where he and his friends would sneak into the corridors to drink vodka from flasks, hiding in the loos to steal secret snogs and touches. 

But even though school was dark during those times it was still buzzing with energy, the knowledge that people were milling about. But while the stark walls and laminate floors make give off an institutionalized atmosphere, being there with Louis awakens the romantic in Harry. 

It feels clandestine, Louis nervously glancing at him every now and then, and Harry grabs onto his hand and squeezes it. He doesn’t know where they are in the school, doesn’t recognize his surroundings in the dark; it all looks the same, the row of lockers and cubbies. He’s hit with a pang of nostalgia, looking at the posters on the notice boards. Life was so much easier when all you had to worry about was finishing a school project on time, and studying for algebra tests.

They come to a halt in front of a classroom, and Louis smiles tightly before opening the door, allowing Harry to enter his classroom first. Harry asks, “Letting me into the inner sanctum?”

“Something like that.”

He doubts Louis brought him here to snog, but he still feels a twitch of excitement getting to see this part of Louis’ life. It feels very much like _Louis_ , somehow. There’s plenty of colour on the walls, cutouts of snowflakes and handprints and snowmen littering the windows. And it’s surprisingly tidy considering what his flat looked like.

Harry’s immediately drawn to the whiteboard, a column of text taking up the far side: _WHAT MADE YOU HAPPY TODAY?_ The header says, and below there’s a list of things. _A dog smiled at me, my sister lent me her necklace, lasagna lunch_ , and so on. 

Harry turns to Louis, fingers tracing the edge of the lettering on the board, careful not to accidentally erase any of it. “This is amazing.”

Louis shakes his head with a shrug. “I try to have a moment of positivity every day and we list things that made us happy.”

Louis points to the top line that says, _I made a new friend_ , says, “This one’s mine.”

“ _Louis,_ ” Harry says. His voice is lower than normal, and he’s pretty sure the awe is plain on his face, gaze locked on Louis’ profile. He’s not looking at Harry, probably because it’s too much, but Harry needs him to see how much Harry appreciates what he’s done by just being himself. “Louis,” he says again, fingers circling Louis’ wrist and tugging him gently towards himself. “That’s lovely.”

Louis only meets his eyes briefly but he laces his fingers with Harry’s, his grip tight. “Thank you. But. That’s not what I wanted to show you.”

“Okay.”

Louis takes a deep breath. “Every year I ask my kids to write down a wish. It’s not a Santa thing, really. Just anything, really, just to teach them about setting goals and working towards what they want, you know?”

Harry instinctively looks around the room and spots the board covering one of the walls. “That it?” He asks, even though it’s obvious, and he doesn’t wait for Louis’ response before going to take a closer look. 

“It’s amazing, Lou,” Harry’s eyes scan the board and the meticulous care that has gone into making it. Every inch is covered with drawings and stickers. 

Louis clears his throat, his tone louder when he finally speaks, “Al’s wish was about you.”

Harry pivots back to Louis in surprise. “She used her wish on me?” As much as he loves Al and thinks she’s an amazing kid, he’s a bit surprised she’d be selfless enough to think about him for an anything-goes wish project.

“She cares about you a lot,” Louis says. He’s come closer, close enough to touch, but he doesn’t, deliberately stays just out of reach from Harry. 

“Al’s is here too?” Harry asks, glancing back towards Louis, who has one arm crossed and a thumb pressed against his mouth.

“Yeah.”

Once he’s paying attention he finds her card easily, purple paper, because it’s her favourite colour, drawn on sunflowers and her block text writing. It’s easy enough to read but he squints at the text anyway. “I’m not sure I get it.”

Louis’ words are measured, he repeats, “She cares about you a lot.” He draws his lower lip between his teeth. “I guess she was worried about you. Just, in general.”

“But she’s seen us together. Why would she think I’m lonely?” Harry asks, and when Louis’ face crumbles it hits him. Why Louis wanted to show him this. Why Louis was hanging out with him in the first place. But he can’t put words to it, can’t be the one to say it. So he stares at Louis, watching the way his mouth twitches and the corners of his eyes have gone tense.

Louis wasn’t nervous because he was on a romantic adventure with Harry. He was nervous because Harry was going to find out the truth. 

The silence stretches long and fragile, and eventually Harry says, “Louis. When did she make this card?” His voice is steadier than he expects.

“Before we met.”

“Okay,” Harry says, because he has to say something. It’s not what he feels, it’s not anything _close_ to what he feels. 

“I explained to her that your life is out of her control, that if she was worried about you she should just spend more time with you doing things together.”

The relentless pushing for them to cook together. The made up bake sale.

“Is that why you didn’t care about the fake bake sale? Because she wanted to bake with me and you figured why not? Why not let this loser waste time making dozens of cakes, cause he has nothing better to do with his time anyway?”

“I-- no. I mean. That’s why she didn’t get into trouble for it, yeah. She had good intentions.”

“Good intentions,” Harry repeats coolly. “I guess your intentions were good too?”

“I didn’t have any intentions, Harry. I don’t have any intentions. Aside from wanting to spend time with you.” He reaches out for him for the first time, trying to initiate contact. But Harry steps away.

“When you first talked to me. You didn’t have any intentions? When you defended me to James? It wasn’t cause you felt pity for that stupid lonely pop star who can’t even fucking sing anymore, who’s so isolated his niece has to get her teacher to pity fuck him?”

He doesn’t yell, somehow he doesn’t yell. His insides are molten. He’s gone from feeling like his chest was practically porous with with how much he wanted to absorb everything Louis said and did to a steel core, bubbling over with disbelief. “But your intentions were good, I guess.” 

“That’s not what happened.”

“Really? So that first night we met. Would you have approached me if this card didn’t exist?” Harry points to the paper. The evidence of how much care Al has for him turned into something ugly, something he doesn’t even want to think about.

Louis’ shoulders are hunched in defeat, mouth pale and tight. “I don’t know. I was there with my friends, I--” He shakes his head. “Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Harry repeats, stuffing his fists into his coat pockets. “I guess I was right about you that night, after all.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Are you still out?” Gemma asks as soon as Harry picks up his phone.

He welcomes the distraction, happy that it forces him to take a deep breath, a necessity to cool his nerves. Just being outside should be enough, but he left the school in a brisk pace, towards the parking lot where he left his car. “Yeah. Need me to pick something up?” He sounds surprisingly normal to his own ears.

“I just realized today that we don’t have a Christmas gift for Louis, can you pick something up?” 

“What?” The line is clear as day, no crackle or distortion, but her words still don’t actually make sense to him

“You know what a Christmas gift is”--he can practically hear her eye roll--”I picked up some iTunes gift cards for her swimming coach and dance teacher, but you know how much she loves Louis, she won’t allow that.” Gemma sighs. “And she said his birthday is on Christmas. Which means she wants the gift to be extra good. Her words.”

Fuck.

“Doesn’t Al want to pick his gift?”

“She’s making him a card, but she doesn’t think that’s enough. She even offered to chip in with her pocket money to the pot.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And this needs to be done now?” 

Gemma pleads, “Come on, he must’ve said something useful on that weird cooking date you two had. Please.”

He was planning on going to Selfridges anyway, but that was for _him_. That was to occupy himself with something that wasn’t wallowing, wasn’t self-flagellation about being fooled. Not to be forced to consider gifts for the very person who just shredded his confidence.

Then again, he’s not exactly eager to explain to Gemma _why_ he’s not in the mood to go shopping for Christmas-slash-birthday gift for Louis. 

“Fine,” he says, and she practically squeals, promising to have a hot pizza waiting for him when he gets home. He’ll probably end up eating the whole thing, he thinks, while taking a long hot soak with a joint and a glass of wine. 

Maybe some bath salts and bombs would be a good gift. Though--just thinking it makes him picture Louis lounging in his bath, his head tipped back and mouth half closed. Imaginary Louis could probably use the salts for a romantic bath with someone he does genuinely care about, too. 

Harry’s jaw aches from how tight it is, and he can’t help but grind his teeth before hanging up. Just as he’s about to pocket his phone he notices a text from Louis on his screen. Already. He swipes the notification away, not ready to see what he has to say. He just hopes he won’t return to an avalanche later.

.

Harry gets sucked into the Selfrdiges by the crowd, the movement of the mass of people creating a force that can’t be denied. He barely manages to divert from the direction people are walking in, pushing himself to the kitchen section. 

He’s reminded of his joke about tea, and any tea related gifts he could think of are off the list immediately. So he won’t find Louis a gift in the kitchen department, but the gleam of the stainless steel lures him closer. 

The Le Cruset pans are as enticing as ever; sturdy and colourful. He wanders towards the knick-knacks, and a vegetable spiraliser stands out to him. He has a set already, of course, but this one looks more compact and easy to use. He might get Gemma to try the zucchini spaghetti if she can make it herself.

He’s soon distracted by a set of hot cocoa stencils. This could certainly be a good substitute until he perfects his latte foam art. He weighs it in his palm, eyes skimming the displays within sight.

His neck stiffens with a sudden twitch when he hears a yelp behind him. _Shit._

Harry was too distressed tonight. He’d joined the pulsing crowd and been spat out the other side just as dishevelled and distressed. Over the years he perfect the technique of not being noticed in public, and he’d gotten particularly good at it after being forced off the stage. It’s a careful balance between standing tall and curving your shoulders the slightest bit. It’s about knowing where you’re going, but not being too assertive when going there. You didn’t want to stand out from the crowd or the norm. 

Being upset and distracted definitely stopped him from adopting his regular strategy. 

So now he has to decide how to approach this situation. He could carry on as normal, and have the person follow him around the store, possibly sneaking pictures, thinking they were going on unnoticed. Or he could turn around and make eye contact, showing that he’s unbothered, and coax them into speaking up, and then leaving. 

(There was, of course, the risk that a person wouldn't go away just because they spoke to him. They might trail him too, and then he’d most certainly have to leave the store altogether.)

Harry clings hard to the cocoa stencils, and tries to casually turn around, eyes meeting that of the woman for a second before looking away. He can’t make it too obvious that he knows he’s been recognized.

She takes the bait, coming a step closer. Harry’s already slipped into his approachable persona with ease. A more open stance, elbows loose and absolutely no clenched jaw.

“I’m sorry, are you-- You are Harry Styles? I’m not mistaken, am I? I was so sad when you stopped performing, I swear I cried a whole week, I was so excited to see you--” She grimaces, “I mean, that sounds so selfish. I felt bad for you too, obviously.”

“Thank you.”

“Must’ve been horrid though,” she says. She’s been twisting her hands so far, and now chooses to start touching the Le Cruset pot placed in front of her. Nerves. He gets it. 

He lets her talk at him as she emphasizes how sad it is that he can’t perform, and doesn’t he miss singing? Doesn’t he miss performing? It’s not something he’s interested in talking about, especially not with a stranger, but luckily he’s learned the art of not answering, really, but keeping people satisfied. 

He learned quite early on that people were happy to keep talking to themselves as long as he nodded along appropriately and they felt heard. 

She closes with a request for a selfie, and he agrees, because it’s the path of least resistance. He tries to muster a smile for her photo, but it’s more likely that he looks half dead, and he really hopes the woman doesn’t think it’s her fault.

When he walks away he’s distracted enough that he picks up his phone, and presses on the text notification without registering that it’s the text from Louis. With it open he can’t help but read it, and his grip tightens around his phone.

**I understand that you’re angry with me, and im sorry if you feel misled. I wanted you to know about the card before it was sent home to you because i want things to be right. Please give me a chance to make it right. I won’t pester u but i’ll be waiting. Please get in touch xx**

He can’t help the exhale he lets out, eyes closing briefly. He’s still angry. He still needs time to think. And he doesn’t know that there’s an _excuse_ Louis could give him that could excuse the meddling, but-- but he is Al’s favourite teacher. And he’s going to give Harry the space he needs. 

So Harry isn’t going to skimp out on Louis’ gift, he’s not going to half-arse it, just because he’s personally conflicted. He can do this.


	21. Chapter 21

Harry returns home with multiple bags filled to the brim in his arms. The kitchen still smells like like pizza, and he’s happy to discover that Gemma delivered on her promise. A pizza with artichokes and olives sits on a rack in the still warm oven.

He’s grateful she’s not in the kitchen so he can put away the cocoa stencils he picked up for himself without her judgement. Tucked away in one of the drawers she’s less likely to notice it. 

The rest of the bags remain unemptied. He’ll go through them with Al later (and probably Gemma’s input on what might be suitable) so she can be involved in building the gift basket. It seemed like a more personal idea to make something yourself than settle for a ‘Best Teacher Ever’ mug. And it seemed like Louis had plenty of mugs in his house from the little Harry saw in his kitchen.

Harry’s not really hungry, but still feels the drive to have two slices of pizza before he gets to work on his bath. He replates it and fills a very tall glass of wine before moving to his bedroom and the ensuite. The bath is filling up and his vape is loaded when Gemma knocks on his door.

“Yes?”

“Is the guest room made up?” She rests her hips against the doorway, leaning her weight towards it.

“Why?”

“Isn’t Nick coming tomorrow?”

His pause before answering, “Yeah, yeah, of course,” probably gives away to Gemma that Nick’s visit had slipped his mind. It hadn’t been planned for long; Nick was simply exasperated that Harry hadn’t come to London for any holiday celebrations so Nick decided to ‘bring the party to him’ when he was up north for his own family. 

“We can do up the room tomorrow,” Harry offers. 

“Okay. Might follow your lead on the bath, good idea, that,” she says before leaving and closing the door behind herself.

Harry checks his phone just as he sinks into his bubble bath; the overwhelming scent of lavender filling every one of his pores. He can’t wait for the calming properties to set in,

Sure enough, Harry has an email from Nick, his travel itinerary forwarded and a request for Harry to pick him up at the train station at three. 

He gulps down some of his wine, and dips low enough into the water that he can wet his hair. Nick’s presence will bring more distraction, which is exactly what he needs.

.

There’s a quick knuckle rap on the hood of Harry’s car before the front passenger door opens and Nick pops his head in. “Hiya. Have you started working for Uber?” 

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too.”

Nick huffs, says, “Yes, you know I’m very happy to see you Haz.” He hefts his bag into the back seat, and points his fingers towards Harry in accusation where he sits back in the front seat, forearms resting casually on the steering wheel, and his glasses holding his hair back.

Nick continues with a shake of his head, “This is a prime Uber driver stance. And sending me the make of your car and your license plate?” His seatbelt clicks. “I was half expecting that you were sending a driver, too busy or important to come pick me up yourself.” He mimes pinching Harry’s cheek. “Just like the old days.”

“Ha, ha.” There’s a real laugh under the surface, but Harry doesn’t want to encourage Nick’s teasing, not yet. 

“Don’t worry, I prefer the personal touch,” Nick says before getting himself properly comfortable, pushing the seat back to make room for his legs.

Harry lets Nick talk at him on the drive home; he fills him on what he missed from the scene, who broke up, who linked up, who declared they were leaving the country in a fit of dramatics. Even though Harry knows all these people, it’s like Nick is talking about people he’s never met. 

It’s hard to remember that he used to fit into that crowd perfectly, considering how easily and seamlessly he left it. It nearly gives him a chill, imagining a parallel life where he was still in the spotlight. A botched vocal cord surgery didn’t have to ruin it, even. He could’ve fought for a seat at the table in other ways. Nick had suggested as much, even Gemma had suggested that he try his hand at producing. But it hadn’t felt right. The wish on Al’s card chafes him. He hasn’t been the happiest for a long time. But he was still quite confident in his choice to step away, but he clearly has not processed his situation entirely. Or else his mood wouldn’t have affected Al so profoundly, wouldn’t have influenced Louis to--

Harry clenches his jaw to shake his train of thought. It does no good to dwell on it now. 

They park the car, and Nick carries his own bags into the house, carefully trying not to slip on their stairs. The snow is wet and has created a real obstacle course on the sleek tiles. 

The door barely clicks closed before Gemma joins them in the front hall. 

“Nick, hi, how are you? How is your mother doing?” Gemma asks, giving Nick a one armed hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her laptop is perched open and a bottle of Perrier next to it. She’s clearly been waiting for them to return. 

“Oh, let’s answer the interesting question: my mum has developed an obsession with mallards for some reason.”

“Really?”

“Paintings and figurines. She even has a few wooden sculptures on the windowsills. Wouldn’t be surprised if she changed the wallpaper. But it’s no other ducks, just _mallards_.”

“I suppose we all need a hobby,” Harry says, tone slightly clipped. Keys in the bowl, shoes and coat off, he steps around the them into the kitchen. 

“Oh yes, how could I forget Harry’s fixation with single use kitchen appliances,” Nick sing-songs, a practiced retort.

“They’re all useful,” Harry says. He swipes another Perrier from the fridge, uncapping it and taking a swig.

Nick has already turned his attention back to Gemma, ignoring Harry, when she asks, “I was wondering if we could go for dinner tonight. Al is going to sleep-over at mum’s house which means I can actually leave the house for a night.

“Sounds splendid to me.” Nick turns to Harry with a smirk. “You can update me on how the nightlife is. Haven’t been around these parts in a while after all.”

“I think Gemma can probably give you a better summary.”

“Really? I think you were on a date more recently than I was,” Gemma’s surprise is evident in her tone. She deliberately pulls a questioning face at him.

“Oh, is that so? Thank you, Gemma. This one’s been so tight-lipped lately. I appreciate your input.”

“I’m right here you know.”

“Yes, that’s the whole point. So you can confirm or deny the claims. Much better than you being talked about behind your back, isn’t it?” Nick says, and it’s so casual. And yet that’s the issue at hand, entirely, isn’t it? His entire _thing_ with Louis was because of people going behind his back. 

“It wasn’t anything. Just the same old, ‘taken advantage of’ situation.”

“Really? Well who says you can’t take advantage right back?”

“I don’t think that’s where I would’ve gone with that, but okay,” Gemma says, patting Nick on the shoulder. She shoots Harry a glance with pinched brows. “You’re not talking about Louis, are you?”

Harry’s eyes cut to her briefly, but he turns back to Nick. 

“Oh, this is someone Gemma knows? How naughty. What did he do? Did he seduce you and have you foot the cheque? Keep coming on to you, strong, and then cooled off as soon as he got you? There’s always showing off on Twitter for attention, but then I would’ve heard of him, I suppose,” Nick ponders.

All things that would definitely fall into the category of ‘taking advantage’ but none of those fit what Louis actually did. Being faced with these particular options leaves Harry at a loss to explain what happened. “No, he didn’t.”

“Well thank God,” Gemma says, her exhale so loud she must’ve been holding her breath.

“He did come on to me.” _The first time_ , he doesn’t say. Nor does he say that Harry ultimately rebuffed him. “But I guess-- I guess it was mutual, though.” Which isn't entirely true. Harry knows that he would be considered the driving force between them. He’s the one who kissed Louis first, who initiated getting off. Who asked him for a date. Louis hadn’t led Harry on at all, and he’d hardly misrepresented his interest.

He’s not quite able to admit that to Nick, or to Gemma, right now. He can hardly admit to _himself_ that he might've been wrong, that just talking about it for a few minutes is making him rethink the situation.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry inspects the guest room while Nick cleans up in the bathroom. The sheets are clean, always freshly changed after anyone visits, but the emergency hamper is out of razors and body lotion, and there’s only one band-aid left; it needs to be restocked, and the candles on the nightstands have burned to the quick. 

He cracks the window open so the room can air out just while he goes to fetch supplies from Gemma. It’s not likely that Nick will need a razor, or body lotion, or want to light candles, especially not for a one night stay, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Gemma’s gone to her room already, but she’s just laying across her bed, phone held above her face. 

“D’you have some scented candles I can borrow?” She turns towards him, blinking slowly. The three martinis from dinner making her eyes a bit glassy.

“Yeah.” She gets up and heads towards her closet. She picks two large candles but instead of handing them to Harry she sits back down on her bed. She seems more sober now than five seconds ago. “I’m still confused about this Louis thing. I don’t want to pry, I mean I didn’t ask about why he was in our kitchen the other day-- but I think I deserve to know if something bad happened.” She seems to be choosing her words carefully, and it makes Harry’s insides squirm.

Of course it’s about more than just Harry for her. Her daughter’s favourite teacher, who she looks up to, being an asshole would be something that would affect Gemma and how she sees him, and how much of an influence she’d want him to have over Al.

It’s serious for her, which means Harry can’t just change the subject or laugh things off like he did with Nick. He worries at the inside of his lip with his teeth. “You know about the wish thing? That he has his classes do?”

She scoffs. “Yeah. I bloody tried to get a peek at Al’s so I could get a clue as to what to get her for Christmas.”

Harry laughs drily at that, shaking his head. “She made a wish about me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gemma says, seemingly as taken aback as Harry was when he first heard about it. 

“She doesn’t want me to be lonely. Or wants me to be happy, you know. Same thing in her mind, I guess.”

“Okay.” She twists the candles in her grip, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So when I met Louis he-- he knew who I was. I mean, he’d seen Al’s wish he knew I was Al’s uncle that she thought was a sad and lonely. That’s why he introduced himself to me.”

“Okay,” she says again, her body sagging into the bed. She’s listening intently, trying to put the pieces together. Eventually, she says, “So he asked you out then? Knowing who you were?”

“Not really. It didn’t end very well,” he says, remembering the brush off he gave Louis that night. “We ran into each other again though. He did say he was Al’s teacher then.”

Gemma squints at him, lips rolling inward. “Okay? I mean, you obviously knew he was her teacher when you had him over here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I mean. That’s not the issue, really,” he says, but it’s getting muddled for himself too. Louis had told Harry the second time they met that he was Al’s teacher, and that that’s why he’d approached him in the first place. 

“So what is the issue?”

But it still felt like Louis had gone behind his back, somehow. “You know Al’s new phase about baking with me? It’s because she wants me to be happy. That’s why she made up that bake sale. And that’s why she didn’t get into trouble because of it.”

“Are you saying Louis _told_ Al to make up a bake sale to get you in the kitchen?” She seems incredulous at the thought, if full body frowns were possible she would be the textbook definition.

“No, no--” he corrects quickly. He still doesn’t quite want to admit what’s next but, “He told me there _wasn’t_ a bake sale.” 

“Wait, you spoke to him about it?” Gemma sounds incredulous. “I don’t get it then. What does Louis have to do with you going along with one of Al’s schemes?”

Harry pauses at that. “Well. He didn’t punish her for bringing the cakes. So it’s a tacit approval of her behaviour, isn’t it.”

“But you just said he _told you_ there was no bake sale. So you endorsed it too, by going along? I haven’t even punished her for that,” Gemma says. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows that Gemma is right. Oh God. “I might’ve. Overreacted,” he mutters, mostly to himself. It’s hard to shake the feeling of being misled; he can’t control that gnawing at his gut telling him he’s been wronged. But the more he moves away from it, the more it seems like he really blew things out of proportion.

.

Harry gets up early unable to fall back asleep, he decides to work on some muffins for breakfast. He’s still thinking about his conversation with Gemma. He was mulling on it all night, and the guilt is gnawing a hole in his gut.

After his first coffee and the muffins are in the oven, he starts working on a full fry up--he knows Gemma will appreciate the fatty breakfast, at least, and Nick’s presence is a good excuse for why he’d make such a big ordeal out of breakfast. 

Neither of them need to know that it’s the only way how he knows how to calm his nerves, and focus. He needs to apologize to Louis. He’d said some awful things in the heat of the moment. And still Louis had reached out with empathy and held his word about not pestering him. ( _Unless he’d just given up_ ) That alone, that Louis respected that he was upset, should’ve told him already that it was worth trying again.

The muffins are just out of the oven when Nick wanders into the kitchen, his hair standing on end and a dressing gown tightly wrapped around him. 

“Are you trying to score a Food & Wine cover? Using me for my connections, I see,” he says, observing Harry’s spread on the hob and counter. None of it has even been plated yet. Although the muffins do look quite good, and the bacon and sausages seem to have just the right amount of crisp.

“Your connections?”

“I know people.” Nick steals a piece of ham. It’s still hot, and he nearly drops it before catching it between his teeth.

“Pretty sure Food & Wine doesn’t put people on the cover.”

“And I’m pretty sure you could pass for a cupcake, just gotta make that hair of yours go up like a frosting swirl.”

“Only if we’ve got access to your hair products,” Harry counters and Nick steals another piece of bacon. 

Harry has told Nick that he’s not interested in front covers anymore, doesn’t want that kind of attention. But he doesn’t find Nick’s jokes annoying. He needs that kind of levity, the teasing that it would be easy to just step back into the machine. He so easily trips himself up otherwise, no doubt why Al picked up on him being a sombre shut-in.

The only other person whose made him feel like things are easy and he can take his time to just be himself while he figures shit out is Louis. He thinks he has an idea for how to apologize but it needs to be done today.

Nick’s train leaves in a few hours, which leaves them enough time to eat breakfast in peace before Harry drops him off. 

Gemma had offered to drop Nick off on the way to picking Al from their mum, but Harry insists on being the one to drive. That way he can get an hour or so of shopping done, to add a few things to Louis’ gift basket. 

Al is back when he returns and she’s been waiting for him, looks like, excited to put together the gift basket for Louis. They set up in the living room, table pushed away and Harry’s bags spilled onto the floor as they sort through the loot.

Well, it’s mostly Al doing the sorting. She seems taken with all the options, tea strainers and planners, as well as bags of candy. She holds up two different hot chocolate spoons. “Can we give them both?” She asks, clearly unsure about what the right choice would be.

“Of course,” Harry says, and picks at the two packs and drops them in the basket. He tries to let Al decide for herself what she wants to put in there. He has a few additions of his own; a pair of gloves since Louis never wore any and was always trying to warm them up. An easy recipes book -- which he could either use if he wants to try his hand at cooking more, or pass on to his brother. A few supplies for his classroom, high quality watercolor sets that Harry knows the school board would never get for their teachers. And yes, a few bath bombs and bath salt. Which Harry hopes they can share together. 

But the most important part is the card. A wish card he’s making for himself to share with Louis. He tries to follow the theme, decking it out just like the kids had theirs: squiggles of glitter lining the edges, snowflakes drawn on in felt marker.

And the wish itself: 

_My wish is for a second chance._


	23. Chapter 23

On the night of the pageant Gemma is a bundle of nerves. It’s all on Al’s behalf: it’s her first time taking the stage and she has the most lines since she’s narrating the show. Gemma’s done well around Al, been encouraging and calming her down, which just means she can only unleash her jitters around Harry.

“She’s gonna do great,” she says for the third time in the span of an hour. “Louis said she knows all her lines by heart.”

“And if it goes to shit, I can share some stories with her about my worst shows,” he says, and she pushes her fist against his shoulder. It’s a teasing gesture that works to be reassuring, as well.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No, but I will if it happens,” he says with a broad smile, “but I won’t have to because she’ll do great.”

“Yes. You’re right. Okay.” She gathers herself, a deep breath. She hefts the gift basket against her hip, says, “I’ll see you in there.”

Harry waves her off as she leaves him with the growing crowd of families gathered outside. She’s going in the opposite direction, to meet with Al and wish her luck as well as hand off their extravagant gift basket.

Meanwhile, Harry’s wish card is burning a hole in his tote bag. 

He’d originally planned on leaving the card in the basket, joining Al’s homemade Christmas card. But then Harry realized that it could easily backfire. No doubt Louis would be receiving gifts from the rest of his class tonight, and considering the time crunch it wasn’t likely that he would have time to open them or read anything instantly. If Harry left his card in the basket it would be impossible to predict, or guess, when Louis would get to reading it. 

Which would leave Harry in limbo indefinitely, and he really, really didn’t want that. 

No, Harry decided that he’ll have to find a different way to make sure Louis gets his card. He just hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.

It’s easy for him to join the raucous crowd entering the auditorium. There are plenty of children being loud and running around, no doubt hopped up on the candy canes that all visitors were handed upon their arrival at the school. 

It would seems like poor judgment to hand it out before the show, but the excitement seems good-natured, and it should do for some louder cheers.

Once Harry’s inside, he scans the crowd to find his mum, eye catching on her waving at him from in the third row. She has seats saved for himself and Gemma.

His mum gets a hug, and he manages to convince her to move just a little bit closer to the edge, so there’s an easy exit if they need it

“Did he have time to look at the gifts?” Harry asks Gemma when she returns and takes her seat next to him. He tries to sound casual. He hasn’t told Gemma about his plan to apologize and try to win Louis over again, if it backfires he doesn’t want her asking about it.

“He went to drop everything off in his classroom. I guess it’s probably safer to leave it all there instead of backstage.” She hoists her jacket off her shoulders and folds it before sitting down and putting it on her lap.

Louis’ classroom, of course. Louis will have to go back at the end of the night to fetch all his gifts, which means if Harry leaves his own card there he’s bound to see it. He takes his camera out of the bag and is poised and ready to take photos.

“She’ll do fine,” he tells Gemma. He means it, of course he does, but it’s also a great way to pass off any noticeable nerves on his part to be about Al’s performance. They’re good nerves now; he has a plan. 

.

Harry hasn’t kept up with the rehearsals, so he had no idea what to expect; it’s more of a long variety show, multiple skits telling stories of other countries’ holiday traditions. Al has a long white frock on, glitter garland around her waist and a candle in her hand, as she narrates each scene.

The one thing Harry knows is when Al’s big part ends; it’s when the children get into formation and sing _Celebration_ , encouraging the audience to get up and sing along. 

It’s the perfect time for him to sneak out. 

He nudges Gemma’s shoulder to let her know he’s stepping out and hands the camera over to her, just in case Al makes another surprise appearance on the stage, and he shimmies his way out, clapping as he ducks towards the back of the room, where the doors lead into the main school building. 

There’s a teacher watching the exit, and Harry simply whispers, “Loo?” 

The teacher points him towards the far end of the hallway, and Harry scurries in that direction. As soon as he’s out of eyesight he course-corrects and turns towards the classrooms.

He’s never managed to find Louis’ classroom on his own, but he’s never had the time to really look. He knows that there’s a sign on the door identifying it; all he needs to do is find that door.

He tries a couple of dead end hallways which feel wrong instinctively, but he checks anyway, before he wanders under an arch that gives way to colourful walls and cubbies. 

Now this looks familiar.

He’s filled with glee when he goes to the door that he _knows_ leads to Louis’ classroom. Fingers closing around the handle and he yanks at it, only to still be stuck on the other side.

It’s locked. Of course it’s locked. 

He turns around, pressing his back against the wall and sliding down until he’s crouched low. If he had Gemma’s bag with emergency supplies he could’ve used a bandaid to tape the card to the door so it would be waiting for Louis when he arrives. Or he could leave it on Louis’ car? It would probably be harder to identify than his classroom, and the paper might get soggy from the snow, but it’s an alternative.

Or, he can just wait for Louis to come and hand his card over in person and get a response right away. That’s infinitely better than leaving the card behind and putting things out of his hands. More nerve-wracking, too, but in a good way.

There’s a faint sound of clicking heels in the distance, getting closer. It doesn’t quite sound like it would be Louis, but Harry perks up anyway, turning towards the sound.

It’s a woman, probably a teacher, judging from the way she eyes him suspiciously. Her purse is clutched to her chest. 

“Are you lost?” 

“I’m uh, I’m waiting for Louis. Tomlinson,” Harry rushes to say, getting up and dusting his jacket just so he has something to do with his hands. The teacher probably didn’t expect to find someone slumped against a door in a darkened hallway.

She perks up at his words though, says, “Oh, I think he left with the others? Everyone went out to celebrate end of term.”

“Okay, thanks,” he answers trying to sound spirited although his heart sinks.

“No problem. Happy Christmas,” she tells him before leaving, the sound of her heels fading in the distance. 

Fuck. Harry should’ve left the card under Louis’ windshield wiper, snow be damned. 

Just because Louis left his gifts in the classroom at the beginning of the night didn’t mean that they were still there. Maybe he came to pick up everything during the show already. Harry had assumed that Louis would be backstage but it’s possible he could’ve snuck away. Or the gifts were still there and he planned on picking them up another time. Harry doubted there were any perishable items, so they could easily just be left overnight. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters to himself pressing his forehead against the door. He’ll have to think of something else. Drop it in Louis’ mailbox, maybe? 

“Harry?” 

Harry’s entire body jerks towards Louis’ voice and his breath is stuck low in his throat. “Louis. Hi. I was waiting for you,” he starts to ramble, and Louis studies him carefully. 

“Did Al forget something?” Louis asks, stepping closer. He’s a bit scruffier than usual, stubble framing his mouth beautifully. Hair tucked behind his ears.

Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “No. I wanted to see you. Wanted to give you this.” 

He hands Louis that card, and Louis glances down at it before looking at Harry. Harry elaborates, “It’s from me.”

Louis flips the envelope open and pulls out the thick cardstock. Glitter scatters to the floor, and Louis swipes the front of the card with his thumb as he reads it. 

“So. What do you say?” Harry says when it’s been silent a bit too long for his taste. His heart rabbiting in his chest, hands making fists.

Louis steps closer him, slipping the card back into its envelope and clutching it to his chest. “You don’t need a second chance, Harry. You’re still on the first one.”

“Really?”

Louis’s mouth curves into a smile, and he nods quickly. “You know, I was going to apologize if I ever heard from you again.” He stifles a humorless laugh, but his eyes are bright when they meet Harry’s.

“You don’t need to,” Harry says.

Lifting his shoulders, Louis says, “You were right, you know? I should’ve told you about Al’s wish I just-- I didn’t expect to keep seeing you, so I didn’t think it mattered.”

Harry slips his hand into Louis’, squeezing their fingers together until Louis’ shoulders drop again. They’re still standing a bit apart, so Harry pulls himself closer. He can study Louis’ face, the way his eyelashes fan as he blinks, can smell the hint of cologne from his neck.

“You should call them thirsty Thursdays,” he says, voice just above a whisper. He’s eager to change the subject. If Louis doesn’t think they have to start over, Harry wants to step right back into the Harry-and-Louis-bubble, he doesn’t want to wait.

“Huh?” Louis’ eyebrows pinch in confusion, his thumb distractedly pushing under Harry’s sleeve and stroking his wrist.

Harry specifies, “Wine and cheese Wednesday. Niall was saying that you just like the name, and didn’t know of anything better so far. Thirsty Thursday is definitely better, and more accurate.”

“Did you just think of that?”

Harry shakes his head, biting the inside of this lip. “I was going to pitch it at the next one.”

“Oh, at the next one? You were going to Louis tilts his head towards him.

“Did you forget? Niall said my food gave me a standing invite. All those canapes and tarts impressed him quite a lot.”

“I did help with those,” Louis teases, pulling Harry’s hand towards him. 

“Are you trying to revoke my invite?”

“No, definitely not. Just don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d showed up at one of those when we were still fighting.”

Louis presses his lips against Harry’s mouth, it’s so light and brief that he can’t qualify it as a kiss, even. But he can read the meaning. They don’t have to worry about that. They can pick right up where they left off.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, and happy louis' birthday to you all. i've always celebrated christmas on the 24th so to me this is the last Actual Chapter and tomorrow counts as a smutty epilogue (spoiler alert?) but the story is complete as of this installment. thank you so much for following along, i'll save my sappy essay length notes for tomorrow. enjoy!

“Wanna help me carry these to my car? Since half of this is yours?” Louis asks, with a teasing smile and a nod of his head to the pile of gifts on his desk. It’s a solid loot, but Al’s basket is clearly the biggest of the lot. 

“This was all Al,” Harry says, gathering the basket in his arms. Louis pulls out a box to collect the smaller gifts; the cards, Lush gift sets, mugs filled with pens and biscuit tins. 

It doesn’t escape Harry’s notice that his own card has been safely stowed away separately. He does feel a pinch of satisfaction at that.

“What are you doing tonight?” Louis asks as he locks up, blowing air out of his mouth to get the fringe away from his eyes.

“I don’t have plans. I was hoping,” he says, trying not to let emotion muddle his voice, “I was hoping we could have dinner or something. But I know you’ve got your end of term party tonight.” He hefts the basket in his arms, falling in step with Louis as they head out.

“I-- I mean the others have gone already.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t want you to miss out on anything because of me. ‘M sure you’ve all got lots of term war stories to share.”

Louis looks away, pulling at his lip with his teeth. “I actually-- I didn’t really feel like having a lot of spare time, after…” He clears his throat. “I sort of offered to help at The Arms if they needed me, so that’s where I’m going tonight. Apparently Christmas shopping makes people quite thirsty.” 

“Oh.” So he was missing out because of Harry, after all. “I’m sure they’d understand if you had to skiv off.”

Louis shakes his head, taking the basket from Harry’s arms to carefully place it in the boot. “I don’t mind helping them. I was going to say you should come with. It might not be the dinner you had in mind but, we do serve food.” 

Harry bites down on his lip, shuffling backward a bit. Louis must misread Harry’s expression, because he quickly adds, “And Gemma and Al are welcome too, if you like. Of course.”

“I think they’re going to my mum’s but I’d like that.” It may not be exactly what he envisioned for their first night back on track, but it doesn’t sound too bad. 

“Yeah?” Louis says, sounding surprised. Which is ridiculous and needs to be rectified, so Harry inches his way closer, until Louis’ back is pressed against the car. Louis’ hands slip easily along Harry’s hips. Even through the thick coat layers, Harry can tell he’s digging his nails in.

“Yeah,” he says, softly, and Louis tips his head up to kiss him. The heat of his mouth contrasts so starkly with the chill outside. 

“We have to go in,” Louis mutters, a firm palm pushing against Harry’s chest. “I’ll be late and it’s unprofessional.”

.

Harry settles into the same booth as he had last time, where he fell asleep, while Louis goes to the back to change. It’s a great seat for being tucked away but watching the bar and the kitchen entrance. He pulls at the drinks menu and peruses it seriously until he hears Louis back in the room.

“Anything you want,” he says putting down a food menu before leaving again.

Harry watches Louis’ walk as he leaves; he’s in black skinnies now, and the apron is tied just above his bum. His fingers twitch around the menu. It’s immeasurably cruel, really, that Harry’s stuck watching Louis like this all night without getting to touch him. 

Louis returns with a deliberate sashay and a cocked eyebrow, as well as a blue drink in a tumbler with an orange wedged on the rim.

“Not quite proper, I don’t think, and we don’t have any miniature umbrellas, but--” Louis places a napkin neatly in front of Harry before presenting the drink, “--a Blue Hawaii for table seven.”

Harry looks at the glass, and back at Louis before shuffling to the edge of his seat. A quick glance around to make sure no one is watching them, and he tugs at Louis’ apron, urging him to bend down and meet him halfway in a kiss. 

It’s brief, but it’s enough, Louis looking a bit flustered when he pulls back up. “I don’t think that’s quite proper, sir.” He chides, but his grin says otherwise.

“Improper behaviour to match an improper drink,” Harry teases, taking a sip of it. Louis grins, a hint of a laugh in his breath.

Harry pushes the food menu back into Louis’ hand, and says, “Surprise me.”

.

When Harry’s finished his drink, started on a cider and almost eaten all of his steak and kidney pie, Louis stops at Harry’s booth, sliding in across from him with a, “Hey.” He folds his elbows on the table. So far he hasn’t had time to actually sit with Harry, only ruffling his hair as he passed by and making eye contact from across the room. “What’d you say to visiting the kitchen?”

Harry hadn’t done that in a while-- getting to step foot in a professional kitchen and watch them work. “Really?”

“It’s probably not as fun as you’re used to. They’re definitely not gonna let you do anything, and you’re gonna need to wear a hairnet, I think, but still. You did say you had fun.”

“Yeah, yeah, I did.” He gulps down more of his cider, licking his lips as he swallows. Louis might have said he’s friends with the owners, but he doesn’t want him to put himself in a bad spot just for Harry. “Are you sure that’s alright?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t be the first time, actually, Ernest has popped in there a few times, actually. He got fixated on making the exact same Yorkshire pudding they make. Best in town, he says,” Louis says with a warm smile on his face.

“I’d love to,” Harry says, and sweeps the rest of his drink before dabbing his face clean; game face on.

.

It gives Harry a thrill, getting to watch professional cooks at work. John, the head chef, welcomes Harry happily, asking if there’s any particular station he’s interested in watching. Harry’s happy to rotate, asking about their curry spice mix and if they make their bread in house. 

It’s loud enough in the kitchen that it’s a surprise when what sounds like a party horn filters through the chaos.

Most of the staff stop what they’re doing abruptly, and Harry instinctively backs away from the action, pressing himself against the wall so they can do what they need to.

“Shit, what time is it?” John says, looking up from the chicken he’s been working on. 

“Just past midnight, chef!” A voice shouts, and John quickly takes a step back, wiping his hands clean.

“Get the cake! Anyone have a light?” John looks around them, frantically, patting down his uniform even though it’s obvious even to Harry that his pockets, if he even has any, are empty.

“I’ve got a lighter,” Harry says, pulling one out of his back pocket and John’s face lights up. 

“Perfect,” he says, and before Harry knows what’s going on one of the sous chefs have brought over a cake with candles on it. Harry understands enough to know he’s supposed to light the candles, so he does. As soon as he’s done and the lighter has been tucked away, he’s presented with the cake to carry it. 

He doesn’t have time to protest before John turns him around, says, “Off you go,” and Harry’s pushed through the doors into the main room.

It’s pretty obvious what he’s looking for: a birthday gathering. The majority of people seem to have collected near the front, a crowd that Harry hadn’t seen just an hour ago when he’d been sitting here. 

They’re loud, and when a woman with long white hair spots him she starts singing happy birthday. The crowd joins in, and Harry hums along as much as he can.

As he approaches he recognizes Niall. The surprise barely has time to register because when they crowd parts it’s Louis who’s at the centre of attention. 

He’s got a hand covering his mouth, his eyes sparkling with appreciation. He spots Harry and his eyes go wider and he shakes his head.

He blows out the candles and Harry places the cake at the end of the bar, where a stack of plates and forks have been laid out. 

Louis pulls him in close as soon as he can, his arms wrapping tightly around him, thumb digging into Harry’s back. He whispers, “I didn’t plan this, I swear.”

“Sounds like someone else did,” Harry says, glancing around the fresh crowd. Niall winks at him from where he’s stood, carving the cake.

“I guess so,” Louis says with a quiet breath. He sounds a bit overwhelmed, one hand still clutching at Harry’s shirt.

“Gemma said your birthday was around Christmas but she didn’t say what day, exactly.” 

“Now you know.” Louis’ fingers move to scratch behind Harry’s ear. “The hair net is very sexy.”

“M’glad you like it,” Harry says. “Think I’ll have one custom-made for myself.” Louis laughs, his eyes turning to slits. They’ve been a bit drawn, the long day of work clearly setting in. But he also looks happy, and Harry knows he does, too.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are going to be sappy notes that have absolutely nothing to do with the story so skip 'em if you just want the smut ;)
> 
> i just want to take a moment to say thank you to everyone who has been reading this and commenting and sending me messages (and my very helpful cheerleaders <3). this has been such a terrible year in writing for me, i've been uninspired, unmotivated and unable to get anything down that i didn't absolutely loathe. so this was a big challenge for me (especially right after completely failing at nanowrimo) one that i took on incredibly late. i plotted and wrote this whole thing as i went, each chapter being completed on the day it was posted-- so obviously unbeta'd and not brit-picked. and so i'm sure it's littered with typos and errors but still so many of you seemed to give it a chance anyway, which i truly appreciate.
> 
> anyway. i've got the motivation now to take on some new writing projects (that will be more thoroughly researched and will actually be beta'd, lol) one will be a bodyguard AU that i'm very excited for, and another secret project. if you want to keep up with my writing or send me a message you can find me at turnyourankle on tumblr.
> 
> thanks again for all the love, i truly can't emphasize how much it's meant to me to have people care about this lil fluffy, sappy story!

Louis spends the last part of his shift at the bar with a Santa hat on and a Birthday Boy badge pinned to his apron. He gets bought a lot of pints, but he only sips half of one and passes the others along. 

He gets cut loose as soon as last call is announced, but he decides to sit at the bar with a coffee and Harry’s hand cupping his knee. The crowd that came just for Louis’ surprise has dissipated over the hour; most of them having only stopped by for one drink and a slice of cake, but Niall lingers much later. Happily taking the beers Louis passes on to him, and splits a basket of chips at the bar. 

Once they’ve left the pub and gotten seated in the car Louis admits, “I was worried Niall was gonna try to keep the party going.” His head is tipped back, cheeks full of air as he exhales.

“Think he was pretty tired too,” Harry says, and Louis snorts. 

“That was a lot,” Louis says, lip bitten as he glances in Harry’s direction. 

“Well you’ve met almost all my family too. I’d say we’re even,” Harry says and Louis hums in response, but from the quirk of his mouth and the clench of his jaw, Harry can tell he’s relieved.

He starts the car. “D’you want to come to mine?”

Harry blinks blearily, he thinks he’s heard him wrong, at first, a wishful misinterpretation. “To spend the night?” 

Louis shrugs, says, “Or a cup of hot cocoa. I do have those two chocolate spoons, don’t I?”

Harry’s mouth tugs into a smile. “Salted caramel and peppermint, yeah.”

“It’s not code for sex,” Louis rushes out, quickly, and Harry has to laugh. 

“Of course not.”

“I just-- Don’t really want to say goodbye yet? We haven’t really had much time alone tonight.” 

“Sounds good,” Harry says, his belly full and cheeks warm. He was the recipient of many of Louis’ abandoned pints, and while he didn’t finish all of them, he still had his fair share. And tipsy Harry never turns down a good cuddle. 

.

There’s no shared hot chocolate, or pretense of cuddling in front of the telly. Harry falls asleep on the sofa while Louis takes a quick shower to wash off the day, and gets awakened by a pyjamad Louis with wet hair, urging him to move to the bedroom.

He’s too knackered to fully appreciate Louis’ ruddy cheeks and the sheen of his still damp skin. But he must have said something out loud, because Louis laughs when he takes Harry’s clothes from his as he gets undressed. 

Harry dips back into unconsciousness easily, with Louis’ weight pressed against his side. 

.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says first thing when he notices Louis’ eyes blinking open before scrunching shut again, distaste at being awake present in every crease on his face. 

“Morning,” it’s mumbled, but Harry dives for Louis’ chest, only getting a quick tickle before Louis bucks him off. They grin at each other, and without hesitation Harry pushes himself closer to him so he can steal a quick kiss. It might be short, but it’s sweet enough to allow Harry to melt into the mattress again.

“Did you brush your teeth already?” Louis asks with a cocked eyebrow. Harry had, indeed. He’s been awake for a little bit, the glare of the clear winter sun having sliced through the window and landed right on his face. He got up for a glass of water and went ahead and brushed his teeth as well, just in case.

Judging from the way Louis hums at him, Harry thinks he made a good call. 

“D’you have any plans today?” Harry asks, and shuffles himself closer. Close enough that he can push his thumb in the dip of Louis’ throat and start trailing it down his chest.

“Birthday dinner and sleepover at the house.”

“So nothing for now?”

“Nope.” He pops the p.

“So we can just…” Harry says, trailing his finger up Louis’ arm, watching as the hairs stand on end. “Stay in bed for a bit?” 

“Mhm. I don’t see why not. I’ve gotta piss but I won’t say no to a lie in.” Louis still twists away from him, and makes to nip at Harry’s sides, before getting off the bed with a bounce. His pants look painted on, his arse and thighs looking delectable and Harry grins into his pillow.

Louis doesn’t take long, and Harry pulls him onto the bed, until Louis is on top of him, chest against chest. 

He tips his chin up, catching Louis’ mouth, a quick swipe of his tongue revealing a minty fresh taste. He rakes his nails along Louis’ back, a gentle press that makes him moan into Harry’s mouth. Harry doesn’t hesitate to dip his hands below Louis’ pants, clutching at his arse and spreading his thighs so Louis can grind against him easily.

He’s overheating, tangled in the duvet and with Louis’ flushed skin pressing against his. “Off, off,” Harry mumbles against Louis’ mouth, but from the way he tugs at Louis’ pants it’s clear he means those, and not Louis.

Still, Louis rolls off of him, pushing at the sheets so they fall off the bed. Harry focuses on taking off his own pants, kicking his legs until they go flying against the wall. “Oops,” he says, and Louis just responds by throwing his pants in the same direction.

“Oops,” he says, too. In the process of taking off getting naked, Louis has gathered condoms and lube, and he drops them by the pillow before kneeling between Harry’s legs again. 

Harry’s eyes follow the bob of his cock between his legs, heavy and full, and pointing right at him. He licks his lips, remembering how good it felt to have it in his mouth.

He’s brought back to the moment when Louis’ lube slick hand circles his cock. Harry gasps, swallowing lungfuls of air at the shock of how electric Louis’ touch is.

Louis thumbs along the underside of his cockhead, slipping with the precome Harry’s leaking. He whines at the lightness, the teasing of the touch. 

Louis asks, “What’d you want?” 

Harry licks his lips, it’s a tic now, his mouth waters looking at Louis, the way he’s hunched over Harry, the way his chest heaves, and the thin trail of hair leading to his cock, sliding over Harry’s hip as he jerks Harry off. 

“Don’t care,” he shrugs and he really doesn’t. In this moment whatever Louis will give him is exactly what he wants.

Louis hums, hand sliding off of his cock, cupping his sac before going further down and circling his hole. Harry spreads his “Thought about this a lot,” Louis says, still not breaching him, but each rub still awakening every nerve ending Harry has. 

Louis shuffles, eyes focused on Harry’s groin, darting between the spot his fingers are stroking and his cock. 

“But not today, I don’t think-- Can’t pass this up,” he says, squeezing Harry’s cock again. 

“Yeah?” Harry says, trying to gather his bearings a little bit, and Louis nods. He tries to reach for the bottle of lube but Harry bats his hand away.

Harry makes to move, but Louis pushes his shoulders back into the bed. “Like this,” he says, and shuffles from between Harry’s legs to straddle his hips. He bites at his lip as he stares down at Harry.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Harry mutters, unable to tear his eyes from Louis’ face.

Lubed up, he reaches between Louis’ legs, finding his hole quickly and pressing a finger inside without hesitation. Louis’ eyes flutter shut, his throat going taut.

He’s jerking himself off now, one hand still cupped around Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s attention keeps shifting between the way his fingers feel tucked inside Louis, the strained, cut-off groans he lets out when Harry crooks his fingers _just so_ and the way he looks. His face, his flushed chest, stiff nipples, swollen cock as he pumps himself.

Harry could probably come just from this.

“Enough,” Louis whines, and Harry pulls his fingers out. The condom packed slips through his fingers, but he manages to bite it open carefully, all the while maintaining eye contact with Louis. 

As soon as the condom is on, Louis grips him firmly and sinks down, down, down, his full weight quickly resting against Harry’s hips.

Louis sighs, long and loud, and Harry’s fingers twitch with misplaced energy. He wants to let Louis set the pace, but goddamn if he’s not two seconds away from pumping his hips to get some friction. 

He grips the flesh of Louis’ bum instead, digging his nails in. Louis seems to take the hint, and starts to ride him in earnest. The heat, the slide, the heavenly weight of Louis’ determined press of his hips-- it all zips across Harry’s spine, under his scalp until it’s all that he feels.

“Oh, God,” Harry mumbles, looking up to Louis as he arches backward, arms braced behind him to get more leverage. His cock bobbing as he moves. His mouth is open, spit slick and swollen, and Harry would love to kiss him right now, but he doesn’t want to sacrifice this sight.

Louis gasps when Harry grips his cock, coming to a near stop as he grinds steadily against Harry. He’s close, he’s so fucking close, but he can’t come before Louis, so he quickens his pace, and moves his other hand to meet Louis’ rim, pressing at the spot where they’re joined.

It catches Louis by surprise, his mouth dropping open in silence, cock spurting as Harry keeps pumping him.   
He shudders, watching Louis come, and then Louis’ mouth snaps shut, and he pulls out all the stops, riding and squeezing around Harry hard, enough so that he comes almost immediately.

Louis smirks with pride, as Harry’s breath stutters, fingers clutching any part of Louis he can get to.

It’s with a wince that Louis lifts off of Harry’s cock, but he lets out a satisfied sigh when he collapses next to Harry.

“Happy birthday to me,” he says, a syrupy smile etching his way across his mouth.

Harry laughs, says, “I think we deserve that hot chocolate now."


End file.
